


The Monsters We Are

by EmpressMermalaid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Asshole Hanzo Shimada, Escape, Fights, Fist Fights, Gun Violence, Hate to Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Mad Science, Mean Hanzo Shimada, Mystery, Okami Hanzo Shimada, Revenge, Science Experiments, Shimada Clan, Werewolf Biology, Werewolf Hunters, Werewolf Jesse McCree, Werewolf Politics, Werewolf Turning, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-10-07 18:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10366893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressMermalaid/pseuds/EmpressMermalaid
Summary: After a werewolf attack that left him on the precipice of death, McCree is horrified to realise that he has now become one of them. He fears the thing that lurks within his own skin, a terrifying beast he has never been able to control. Now he finds himself, years after the attack, chasing whispers and rumours in the hopes of tracking down and killing the white wolf that destroyed his life by turning him.McCree has no idea that finding the white wolf is just the beginning. The more he learns the truth about his past, the more he learns about himself. Yet all the while a greater threat, one that will determine the fate of the entire world, stirs just out of sight...





	1. Cover Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This beautiful cover art was done for my by my good pal Ghost-Chicky. 
> 
> Please check out his [tumblr here](ghost-chicky.tumblr.com) and also his [Patreon](patreon.com/ghostchicky)!


	2. Prologue

Lights flicker. Sparks crackle in little showers from a fluorescent bulb ripped from the ceiling. As it swings, it casts its flickering light dutifully over the room. Sickly green tiles, now painted red. Something dripping from a table to the tiles below. Also red. An ever growing pool in the middle of the room. It too, is red.

There are twelve hospital-style gurneys in the room. They had been neatly arranged against the walls, but now they stand on their sides, knocked unceremoniously to the floor at random. Shards of glass pepper the tiles, cabinets and their contents strewn through the debris like an artful mise en scène of the eye of a storm. 

Much like the the occupants of the gurneys themselves. Four bodies lie in a pile at the centre of the room, their blood slowly painting the floor a rich crimson. Three bodies are scattered across the furniture. There is an emphasis on _scattered_ as none are in one full piece and it's impossible to tell what belongs to whom, like macabre puzzle pieces tossed across every surface. Two bodies are still strapped to their beds, so now they sleep forever on their sides. One body is missing entirely.

There are three things of interest in this room. The first is a man. He is young, his face tanned by the sun, his hair tousled with a goatee beneath his lip. He is fit, handsome and in his prime. He is also dying. It's unfortunate, but there are some rather vital parts of him on the _outside_ that really ought to be on the _inside_ , and he too is contributing to the communal blossoming pool of gore seeping its way to every corner of the room.

The second thing of interest is _also_ a man. This second man is tall, but it's hard to tell that from where he lies in a crumpled heap, slumped against a table that holds a jagged landscape of broken vials, bottles and other scientific equipment. His hair is blond, but like so many things in this room, it is being dyed red. He is older than the young man. He is the young man's Commanding Officer, but military decoration means nothing on his death bed.

The third thing is a white wolf, its fur marred with blooming dahlias of thick, wine-like blood. The young man burns the image of the wolf into his mind, along with the blank, glassy faces of his fallen comrades. His fallen Commander.

He will get out of here. He will get his revenge. He will find the white wolf.

 

And he will kill him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that you can see more of my shit in the following places:
> 
> [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/ladymermalaid)  
> [Tumblr (main)](http://www.ladymermalaid.tumblr.com)  
> [Tumblr (porny side blog)](http://www.empressmermalaid.tumblr.com)
> 
> Did you enjoy this fic? Chuck me a comment (even if it's just a single, solitary grunt) and you will fill me with such pride and vanity and appreciation I will have no choice but to write more and update more regularly to soak up more of that sweet, sweet recognition. It's that simple!


	3. Flight

The sun was hanging low in the sky, lazy and swollen, the dying heat like the last licks of fire from a chalky piece of coal. It painted the sky a rusty gold, fringed with purple lace and the trimmings of streaky, muddled butts drawn taut over the sunset that stretched for miles. A comfortable warmth settled over the weathered car in a truck stop parking lot, the only thing stirring in the middle of nowhere ghost town. A sad, burnt out neon sign flickered to life as sunlight rapidly fell beneath the rocky sketch of the horizon. It hummed audibly, like an enormous bug zapper. The smell of stale Earth and dry, crumbling asphalt rose as the heat settled, the last plumes of distant mirages dancing their last as the sky was rapidly consumed by a smoky blue. A slight breeze stirred a patch of sickly brown wild grass.

Inside the dented chassis of the car in the parking lot sat a man. He crushed a greasy wrapper noisily in his fist and tossed it behind him to the back seat without so much as a second glance. He wiped his face on a tattered napkin stuffed in the centre console that smelled faintly of week old hotdogs as he swallowed what tasted like a shot of pure ketchup. He had purchased what was _supposed_ to be a cheeseburger, sitting in a grimy warmer behind the gas station counter where they kept a variety of unsavoury looking food for passing travellers. Considering this stretch of road didn’t get a whole lot of traffic, he shuddered to think of how long ago his soggy dinner had actually been made. He paid with a handful of coins, told the pock-marked man behind the register to keep the change and kicked back the passenger’s seat so he could prop his feet on the dash. His boots jangled as he flicked a cigarette between his lips, cupping his still oily hand around the stuttering lighter as it took several attempts to burn. He coughed. The smoke was acrid – it tasted like cheap chemicals and desperation. A thin trail of smoke curled out the open window and disappeared into the fast approaching night.

As the last of the light was disappearing behind the crags in the distance, another car pulled up to the truck stop. It rolled to a halt a few feet away and killed the lights as the door was flung open. The smoking man grinned and snuffed his cigarette on the patchy fabric lining along the inside of the passenger’s seat door. The web of small, black holes peppered across the ugly green upholstery said it was a habit.

“McCree.”

A very curt, smartly dressed woman stepped out of the car and waited. She looked completely out of place in this deserted, run down joint. She tapped her toes idly, still patiently standing beside her car as the other man, McCree, untangled his legs from the dash with a grunt of discomfort and flicked his burnt cigarette butt into the ashen dirt beneath his feet.

“Athena!” he sing songed, lumbering up to her as though he might embrace her. He reconsidered after spotting the purse of her lips.

“I see you received my message,” she stated matter-of-factly, a dry crisp to her usual honeyed tone.

Jesse bit his lip and glanced over at a nondescript place in the distance. His heart beat spiked like a child being sat down to explain an incident of bad behaviour to a disappointed parent. He wasn’t in trouble. Not yet, anyhow.

“Didn’t know who else to turn to?” he asked, tugging a loose thread from his cuff.

Athena sniffed.

“I had many options,” she shrugged curtly and folded her arms, leaning her hip against the warm hood of her car, “you were simply the most logical choice.”

“I’m flattered,” McCree moved to sit on the hood of his own beat up car, heels digging in to the scratched and warped bumper as the entire vehicle bounced and sagged under his shifting weight.

There was a moment’s silence in which they simply regarded one another. They were as good as strangers, even though their histories had intertwined at some point – Athena’s ruby red lipstick and the smart blazer she wore now took him right back to seeing her in passing every day a long time ago. It was like crossing paths with an old co-worker. The nostalgia of seeing a familiar face, even if it was one of someone he never particularly knew all that well was still enough to fill him with a pulse of warmth. Athena cleared her throat with a sharp cough, and McCree drew his eyes away from watching a stray ant jittering along a small pile of pebbles near Athena’s tyres.

“I need your help,” Athena’s voice was soft but strong.

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” McCree scratched his beard idly, ruffling the whiskers that lined his jaw.

“I know what you’re looking for.”

The neon lights reflected in her eyes made her poignant gaze all that more piercing. McCree felt the churn of butterflies in the pit of his stomach, surrounding his heart as it beat in time with the fluttering of their allegorical wings. His palms began to feel clammy against the coarse denim of his jeans. He swallowed.

“I’m sure as hell I don’t know whatcha talkin’ about,” he replied a little too quickly, the words drying on his tongue.

“Hmm,” Athena gazed pensively into the middle distance, her tongue clicking absent-mindedly against her front teeth. “Let’s pretend for a moment that I _do_ know. Hypothetically. Would you trust me?”

“I ain’t-”

“Good,” Athena forged ahead, her prim voice somehow drowning out McCree’s protests, “because I don’t believe you have much of a choice either. You’re out of leads and at a dead end. Why else would you have been idle in Santa Fe for so long?”

The quiver of McCree’s brow betrayed him.

“There’s no use asking how I know. You know I would not tell you. Just rest assured I am here to help _you_ as much as I am here to help myself.”

McCree chewed his tongue, the lines around his eyes deepening as he frowned. His dark eyes were fixed on Athena, who hadn’t moved from her comfortable leaning position with her arms tucked neatly around her midriff. Athena coolly surveyed her surroundings, glancing between the soft shadows of the gas pumps in the glow from the truck stop windows to where the road curved and disappeared in the distance. When McCree’s reply was too long overdue, she flicked her eyes back to him, her blank expression quite cordial and patient.

“Okay,” McCree sighed gruffly, “let’s… let’s say you got _some_ idea of what’s goin’ on. I don’t know how you know, but-” he shrugged curtly, “-but you say ya do, an’ I ain’t got no reason not to trust ya but this is a bit of a… _vulnerable_ place to meet don’t ya think?”

Athena exhaled sharply from her nose, her lips twisting in a wry smile.

“No cameras… middle of nowhere… no people… I think this is a fine meeting place.”

McCree opened his mouth to interject but was shut down by Athena flicking her head in the direction of the truck stop with the weather beaten man behind the counter with a dour “oh please.”

“What? He could be snoopin’ on our business for all you know! Not much happens out these parts he’s probably bored and looking for any kinda trouble he can get his beady li'l eyes on.”

“Highly unlikely. Who would be foolish enough to stick their nose in the business of two people brave enough to pick a ghost town gas station as their designated meeting point?”

“I dunno… some people might…”

“Well if you’re worried, we should make this brief.”

“Right you are, ma’am. You said you needed _my_ help?”

“Something like that.”

Athena pushed off from where she was still resting against the hood of her car and moved to open the back door behind the driver’s seat. She stuck her head inside, rummaging for a moment before emerging with a manila folder clutched in her polished fingers. She wordlessly handed it off to McCree who immediately flicked it open with interest. It was a few short pages pressed primly together, neatly ordered within the folder. McCree caught an address, the only thing on an otherwise blank piece of paper and the corner of what looked like a map printed off the internet sticking out behind it. McCree licked his thumb and leafed through the other half a dozen pages. All of them were typed and printed except for the last one – a carefully trimmed piece of lined paper with a tight, dainty script filling the entire page like a detailed journal entry. Before McCree could bring the page up closer to his face to read the tiny cursive in the dim lighting Athena spoke up. There was a waiver of uncertainty to her previously temperate voice.

“I think… I think one of our… _mutual friends_ may not be… as… gone… as we thought…”

McCree quit the fruitless effort of trying to read what he assumed to be Athena’s handwriting in favour of squinting into the woman’s eyes as she tried to avoid his gaze. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she had suddenly shrunk alongside her car, her calm and collected aura becoming mousier by the second.

“Who-?”

Athena interrupted him once again, this time with a vague hand wave towards the dossier he carried. _The details are in there. Don’t want to say it aloud. Can’t say it aloud._ McCree understood the gesture.

“Alright then how do _I_ figure in to y’grand plan?”

“You needed a lead and I need someone to follow this one. I’m not sure how accurate most of it is, but I would be willing to bet that if you tug this string a whole lot of things will unravel. ”

“Your source is good then?” McCree scratched his chin as he sat up a little straighter, trying to figure out what the map was detailing.

“I would only give you the best,” Athena’s terse smile helped to lighten her face somewhat.

“How long we got?”

“It’s all in there in my notes. I would recommend mobilizing as soon as possible however… your window of opportunity may vary depending on… other factors. I don’t believe it’s going to be too dangerous, you can probably get by travelling light.”

“Good, I don’t got a lot of gear on me anyhow. Was thinkin’ I could probably head straight there… is this the place?”

McCree pulled the map out of the folder fully, and realized it was of a route zoomed out far enough that there were visible state borders. So it was going to be a long trip then. McCree’s fingers prickled. The thought of the open road made his blood pump a little harder with excitement. Athena peered over the top of the page.

“That’s it,” she confirmed, tracing a thick blue line all the way from their current location to the top left of the map, following the highway path set by the predetermined route online.

“Oregon?” McCree’s eyebrow quirk was a skeptical one.

“Oregon.”

“Fair bit of a drive from here.”

“Better get moving, cowboy.”

Athena hesitated as they both said their goodbyes. She finally darted in to grasp McCree in a fleeting hug, murmuring something about how it was good to see a familiar face. McCree’s heart warmed at the sentiment. He echoed the same to her, giving her a friendly clap on the back as she climbed into her car and drove away. He watched her leave, red tail lights glowing like eyes in the now pitch black night until they were long out of sight. He shuffled back into his car, winding up the windows against the chill that had begun to nip along the edges of the breeze.

McCree fumbled above him, fingers clumsily finding the switch for the ceiling light which shone a harsh, sickly yellow light over the folder in his lap. He pulled out the handwritten page and quickly read over it. God bless Athena if it wasn’t the most thorough tip McCree had been given in months. Something heavy settled in to the pit of his stomach as his eyes trailed down the length of the page, a certain sense of unease that only came with being face to face with the unknown, and the possibility of one too many _what if_ s. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

The car roared to life as he flicked the key in the ignition, the only sound in an otherwise still night. He pulled out onto the highway, setting the course North as the radio crackled to life with a static rendition of some old school classic rock song. The man at the counter at the gas station didn’t notice him leave, too wrapped up in his old magazines to care.

\--

The drive was long but uneventful. It gave McCree the opportunity to think, and he was doing a whole lot of that. His mind wandered the longer he had to stare at endless, unchanging desert roads, where the scrub and dusty outcroppings were the only thing to break the monotony of barren ochre sand. Sometimes the road would curve just a little and his muscles would throb with mild discomfort as he had to turn the steering wheel ever so slightly which was his cue to pull over and stretch. He was only thirty-seven, but this descent into old age wasn’t sitting so great with him. Achy joints, a back that cracked lethargically whenever he had been sitting still too long. Might as well start digging his grave already, while he still had the mobility to do so.

On one such pit stop, he parked in the patchy shade of a leafless tree, its branches gnarled and weathered as though it had never been watered - clawing at life from its spidery roots burrowed into the hard clay Earth below. A flock of shrill birds circled high above his head. McCree watched them with interest as he sipped a flat, room temperature cola he had purchased yesterday from a dinky corner store in a no name town on the edge of nowhere. They dipped lower, circling and screeching at one another, gliding along the breeze as though they were looking for something. A sharp dive and a loud, primal scream and one of the birds flapped off, a limp rodent in its beak. _Too slow_ , McCree watched the rodent disappear as the bird landed, hidden by a thicket of wiry wild grass, _unlucky_.

\--

The quiet roads at night gave McCree too much time to think. He didn’t like being at the mercy of his own mind – it was all too easy to disappear under the current of dwelling on things he wished he could push out of his head completely. His knuckles ached, curled around the wheel. The radio was silent – it was too far out to get decent signal and the static had been starting to bother him.

Desert roads, dusty and barren, turned into suburban streets, and back into wilderness – as quickly as the towns came, they had went again, on to endless stretches of nothingness. McCree glanced at the clock. It had seemed like only a few minutes had passed since it read midday, but now it was trying to claim to him it was past five. He squinted at the dash somewhat sceptically.

Oregon brought with it a real change of scenery. Roads lined with thickets of trees, towering above every house he passed, and a butted sky that cast a gentle quiet on the ground. The map Athena provided took him off the main roads a few hours past the border. His car rumbled, jilted over the uneven tracks that looked as though someone hadn’t driven that way in some time. He worried he was on the right path as there was little in the way of signs out this far, while dense clusters of forest blocked out the sky for stretches of the journey. Eventually, he rolled to a still, eyes on the house ahead. Actually, calling it a _house_ was a disservice – it was more of a mansion. Old and slightly dilapidated, as though inhabited but tended to by someone who had difficulties keeping her in the same majesty of her prime.

He parked his car, well hidden behind greenery and distance. He didn’t want to be seen, and he didn’t want to be heard just as much. If he was tangling with the unknown, it would be best not to take any chances. McCree scouted the perimeter by foot, keeping his head low, taking care to move in such a way he left as minimal tracks as possible. He was glad for the opportunity to stretch his legs. He craved the taste of nicotine on his tongue, but didn’t care to light up for fear that the things he was hunting would smell it a mile away. This was dangerous territory. He couldn’t afford even a minor mistake.

He oriented himself with the environment. Heavy tree coverage surrounded the manor. He circled a wide berth before he dared to approach the house itself. His heart spiked against his ribs – if he had to be honest, it thrilled him. It had been too long since he’d been knee deep in “field work” like this. The first thing he noticed was the exterior paint peeling and chipping in places, but the baby blue colour would have looked lovely in its time. Large overhanging awnings and decorative columns along the deck placed the architecture at 200 years old at least. It had been standing here for quite some time, that was for sure. The windows were dark – there didn’t seem to be any signs of life inside. McCree approached quietly, sinking down to his haunches beneath a weather beaten sill. He strained his ears. Silent. He peeked through the glass.

Inside was a nondescript lounge room. A dusty sofa. A television set that looked at least 20 years old. Clutter covered every surface – a pile of empty peanut butter jars. Manila folders. Loose pieces of paper. Knick knacks and brick a brack tumbled over shelves and tables. They didn’t look too old though. It wasn’t abandoned or the home of an old hoarder – just a very, very messy individual. There wasn’t anything of interest inside, though it was dark indoors so there was only so much McCree could see, which was the same with the other rooms he dared to peer inside to. A scrappy kitchen, long past its golden years. A concrete room that sort of looked like an empty laundry. A hallway with a framed painting of a waxy, flowering field in it. He returned to the car, as cautiously as he came, to wait for the next phase.

McCree was halfway through a dry, oversalted packet of beef jerky several hours later when finally something caught his attention. He fumbled with a pair of surprisingly expensive and hi-tech binoculars (“liberated” many years ago from a big brand department store), wiping his fingers clean of chili flakes and grease on his pants before peering through the lenses. A shiny new car zipped quietly up the path to the house, a trail of dust stirring beneath the gleaming tyres. The licence plate read “RNTL 04”, and a big yellow sticker across the back window advertised a place called “Jerry’s Rental Cars”. The car came to a stop neatly by the front porch, and two women stepped out. From the driver’s side, an ash haired woman swathed in a heavy shawl stepped out, a slight stoop to her posture. From the passenger’s side, a dark skinned woman dressed down in simple khakis and white blouse emerged, her shiny hair pulled back into a smart ponytail. They had the same sleek features, regal and quiet as they regarded their surroundings with cool, calculating eyes. They disappeared inside the house. McCree chewed the end of a piece of jerky like a cow chewing cud. Did they own the house?

Athena’s notes sat on his lap. It wasn’t much longer before another car arrived, a sleek black ride that stood out like a sore thumb in a place like this. From this car, another two figures emerged. Both male, both dressed to kill in sharp business attire, their features handsome and slender in a way that complimented their distinctly Asian heritage. They entered the house the same way as the two women previously. McCree sat up straighter in his seat. Things were beginning to happen. The only other person to arrive was another woman – tall and slender like something from a perfume commercial, her silhouette cutting a striking figure in an expensive looking dress. Like the men before her, she looked far too glamorous to be somewhere like here. It only made McCree all the more curious.

Lights began to flicker to life throughout the house as the sun began to sink, a dusky blue powdering the sky. McCree stretched, cracking his neck stiffly as the warmth of his car chassis began to wane with the light. He fumbled around for his kit. Binoculars, a curious little listening device and ol’ faithful – a gleaming pistol named Peacekeeper. He gave her an affectionate flick, the way one might toss a lucky charm for blessings before a big event. _Show_ _t_ _ime_.

He crept through the underbrush, keeping low to the ground until his back was up against the house. He was somewhat surprised to find there was little to no security out here – perhaps they had not anticipated visitors this far out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. He had been keeping a keen eye out, but was somewhat disconcerted to find that he was met with no resistance. He didn’t have time to dwell on that, he fiddled with his nifty piece of tech – a gift from a long gone friend years ago – fitting a little piece into his ear and pressing a seamless panel on the handset piece. Static crackled as the device flickered to life, levelling itself to the white noise and seeking something more substantial. McCree methodically turned the flat piece of metal and glass over in his hand, display dimmed so as to not arouse suspicion, hoping to angle the device in such a way he’d be able to gain an idea of where in the house the current occupants were congregated.

Success.

A low murmur of voices, too low to hear from here, but definitely on the other side of the house. He scurried around the corner, crouched low and fingers carefully trailing through wiry grass growing by the manor’s concrete foundations. The voices grew louder – several more than McCree had seen enter the house.

“This is getting out of hand,” a thick Russian voice – a woman – said, her tone impatient.

A rumbling, deep voice countered.

“I don’t think we have that much to worry about.”

A different voice answered, the snootiness of her French lilt making her difficult to understand fully.

“An abomination was spotted off the East Coast,” she sniffed, “and _you_ don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

“I would hardly call it an abomination,” the deep voice replied.

McCree’s ears perked up. He strained to listen as closely as possible. It was tough to make out some of the individual voices when everyone seemed to be muttering or talking at once. Whatever was going on, it was clearly a large meeting of some significant importance to these people. An abomination off the East Coast… he wondered what that could mean. Did it mean… more… more _things..._ things... like him? Was this what Athena meant when she said she had information on an old “mutual friend” of theirs? He frowned. He sure liked putting the pieces of a puzzle together, even if he didn’t like the hard thinking parts that gave him a headache if he strained too hard.

“Winston is right, it doesn’t seem to be aggressive,” a gentle, matriarchal tone spoke up, her influence in the room apparent in the way the others fell quiet while she spoke.

“That does not mean it is not a disgusting freak of nature that goes against everything we stand for,” the French woman said scathingly.

“What _you_ stand for, maybe,” a chirpy, feminine voice was heard over the din of murmurs and mutters of varying degrees of approval or dissent.

“He has a point,” the older sounding woman spoke again, “you’re not a wolf Amelie-“

McCree could tell by the heartbeat of silence that this was a controversial thing to say. He didn’t know who Amelie was, but judging by the affronted sniffing at this remark, he guessed it was the French woman. If he had to take a stab in the dark, he’d say the voice belonged to the elegant, overdressed lady he saw enter the mansion last. She looked the type.

“I know as much as the rest of you,” her reply was punctuated with a heavy lilt of incomprehensible French, “do not patronize me. I know what Gerard would have wanted, and he’d have wanted the beast _put down_.”

“The resources we would need to track a wild wolf halfway across the country would ruin us, we don’t have that kind of discretionary spending,” the rumbling voice – Winston – added.

“Not to mention a waste of our time. Let sleeping wolves lie,” there was a thud – as though the Russian woman had banged her fist on something for emphasis.

“He sleeps for now,” Amelie, the French lady, did not seem to be one to be ever at a loss for words, “but for how long? How long until he mobilises against our own kind? How long until we are the ones in danger?”

“Amelie,” the older woman chided affectionately, albeit slightly derisively, “you are human. You may have married a wolf, but you are not truly a part of a pack. You know I do not say this to insult you, I merely wish to highlight that you have the opportunity to walk away.”

“How dare-“

Whatever was about to come to a head was interrupted by a sharp cough. A new voice spoke up, his tone crisp, rounded slightly with a foreign mother tongue.

“I think we are losing sight of what is important.”

The others fell silent. Amelie’s indignant retort silenced on her tongue. McCree could just imagine her brooding face, though he did not dare look inside the window for fear of being seen. This lot seemed combative just in conversation, he wouldn’t deign to provoke all of them at once with being spotted snooping around. He was too busy mentally cataloguing all the information at hand too. Everyone in the room seemed to be aware of the existence of Werewolves, that was something. He was remembering small details. A French woman named Amelie, seemingly ostracized from the others because of a man called Gerard. An irritated Russian woman. A deep, rumbling voice of a man whose hesitation made him out to be somewhat of a pacifist. An old mother figure who seemed just as comfortable reprimanding someone as she did encouraging them.

“Hanzo-“ another masculine voice, coloured with the same accent. The two Asian men in suits.

“Who cares about some lab rat experiment?” the other, Hanzo, spoke “it is garbage. Worthless. We have larger enemies afoot, we cannot afford to squabble amongst ourselves like _children_.”

“He speaks truth,” the Russian agreed.

“I am inclined to agree-“ Winston started slowly.

There was a sharp “Winston!” from the older woman, but he persevered with his train of thought and she fell quiet.

“-with both of you. We all know there are groups out there who would look to eradicate all of us _and_ our packs. I think that should be our top priority, however, I do not think we should merely ignore the sightings of an artificial wolf – it could mean something. There might be more. I think we should find where they’re coming from and put a stop to it.”

“Are they really so bad though?” the motherly woman spoke, a slightly haughty overture to her words, “are they any less against the will of nature than we are?

“They’re not _real_ -“ a young woman, so far silent in this conversation interjected and was shushed by the motherly figure.

“How ridiculous, of course they’re real. So they got their abilities from a test tube and not their mother’s womb, how does that invalidate their existence?”

“You’re too forgiving,” the young woman with a similar accent muttered crossly. Their matching accents made him think of mother and daughter – the two women in the rental car perhaps?

“Maybe so,” the older one continued, “but when you get to be my age you’ve seen far too much bloodshed already over the smallest things. Territories, bloodlines, women – _bah_ – these things never change unless we change them.”

“How foolish,” the daughter snapped.

“Hush now,” was the reply. If McCree had thought before that they were a parent and child, that small quip all but confirmed it.

“I think the big man’s got the right idea,” the chirpy British ocher was back, ringing out above all other voices, “why are we fighting when we can look into both things at the same time? There’s plenty of us to go around, you know!”

“Thank you,” the deep rumblings of Winston sounded appreciative, “as I was saying, I think we should get a group together to investigate the sightings on the East Coast, and I think we should put together a team dedicated to enhanced security against external threats like Talon.”

“Talon – hmmph- that is not what I meant when I said we had larger enemies at hand,” one of the haughty sounding Asian men said gruffly.

“ _Hanzo_!” the same man with the same tone who had hushed him before.

“What do you mean?” a thick accent once more - McCree affectionately dubbed the Russian woman “Olga” in his mind – not having a name to the voice bothered him.

“Please excuse me.”

“I’m so sorry,” the not-as-gruff Asian man spoke, his voice hasty “my brother’s English is uh… it’s sometimes not so good.” Even McCree could smell the lie. “He simply means Talon is a greater threat than we know! So uhh, pardon me a moment!”

There was the sound of a door opening and slamming, and a second later the same noise again. McCree raised his eyebrows, craning his head to try and see into the room. So Mister Hanzo wasn't happy with the decisions the group was making and thought there was a bigger threat out there. His companion – no, _brother –_ seemed to have reservations about this information being shared. Both had clearly left the room in a hurry. McCree wondered what this could mean. The listening device in his hand crackled with static.

Suddenly, the window he was pressing his face against shattered, slicing his cheek and making him yelp in surprise and pain. Stinging cuts blossomed against the grain of his skin, not overly deep, but he did feel a dribble of warmth roll down his face – blood. Lots of it. Clutching his smarting cheek, he quickly turned, still crouched below the sill as the voices inside melted into one loud cacophony of surprise and anger. His eyes widened in shock at the scene unfolding behind him. He had been so preoccupied with the occupants of the house, it had not even occurred to him that they may have attracted unwanted visitors asides from himself.

McCree rose slowly to his feet, shielding himself into a guarded position as moving black figures in the night closed in on his position. His heart beat fire in his veins and his head was suddenly clear and sharp. All of a sudden, lights burst forth from the shadows – torches and spotlights revealed just how many of them there were. McCree counted at least 20 figures closing in on his position, swift and methodical moving in formation. Trained. Militant. He stood up fully, now completely in view of the people inside, and the figures in the house yelled with varying degrees of outrage at his presence. Something heavy was lobbed at his head and he knocked it aside, feeling a dull ache of an immediate bruise and he hissed. A large, ornate stone table piece fell into the bushes by his feet. McCree was thankful that did not in fact collide with his skull – he'd have more than a bruised wrist if that were the case.

He wheeled around. All eyes were on him, angry, fearful. They thought he was one of them, the assailants closing in around them. That was dangerous. He ran. A shout rang out behind him, and the sound of crunching glass as someone gave chase. McCree didn't dare try and see who. There was no time.

A loud shot rang out and a pocket of dirt exploded by his feet – a warning shot. Someone was yelling- it might have been one of the armed soldiers closing in on them, it might have been the werewolf from inside the house currently chasing him down. He didn't stop. He didn't slow. Cold air burned in his lungs as he pumped his legs, surging forward with as much speed as he could muster. There was a gap up ahead in the military squad's formation – if he could just break through, he could make it to the woods and lose them in the trees. He could double back around – get his car, get out of here. Leave. He had a new lead – the East Coast. He'd go there. Somewhere, anywhere. He couldn't be here. He had to get away.

A handful of the soldiers made a motion to trap him, cutting off his escape route, sensing the direction he was headed by the way he stared at nothing else. All around was chaos. Sounds had erupted like an all too familiar opera of a mission gone hostile. He wasn't going to make it. A soldier raised a gun at him, still a hundred paces away but keen eyed enough to take the shot. Would he take the shot? McCree wondered how many bullets he could take before he'd stop moving. The adrenaline in his system told him it was far more than what was probably true.

Suddenly, there was a weight on his back and he ate dirt – literally. His face slammed into the hard grass, pain flaring to life all too quickly, he couldn't even begin to figure out where it came from. Something sharp tore into his leg and he cried out with pain, struggling to get away. He was desperate for escape. Desperate to flee. Whatever was on his back was holding him down, crushing his ribs from the back, a hot, wet maw on his neck. McCree's blood ran cold.

He couldn't move. His limbs seized underneath him, paralysed by fear. He was going to die here, in the dirt. Never the opportunity to face his killer. Executed without fanfare. Executed without honour. An underprepared man in the wrong place at the wrong time. He struggled to turn his head, looking up at a million stars and the terrifying visage of a wolf, spittle on his lips, teeth bared. McCree tried to make peace with his Maker, but he couldn't – it was too unfair. He had so much left unsaid and undone. How could this be his time?

He yelled as he was yanked back, a firm grip on his collar. He could feel the wolf's muzzle against his neck as he was dragged back, choking slightly on his jacket. There was no ceremony or grace to how he was lifted, carted away as though he were nothing more than a grocery bag. To drag him to this height, the wolf must have been enormous – far larger than... than the thing McCree himself turned into. Twice as big, perhaps, and McCree was already a monster. When he had felt teeth on his spine just now he was sure that this is how he would go, but instead he was being pulled back, feet scraping muddy prints where the tips of his boots struggled to find purchase. The enormous wolf carried him in his mouth away from the soldiers with their guns levelled at them both. A few shots rang out but if any of them hit, the wolf gave no indication. They flew over the grounds, headed back to the house and crashing through a garage door. McCree yelled, arms flying up to protect himself from debris. They skidded to a halt.

“LENA!” the wolf bellowed, and McCree was so surprised he dropped to his knees when he was let loose of the werewolf's mouth. He didn't think it was possible to speak in wolf form. It took him a second longer to realise the deep baritone was that of the man called Winston. He had no further time to question this, as a smaller wolf, hardly larger than a great dane zipped into the room faster than lightning. It carried a length of chain, and McCree was so shell shocked by the events unfolding he barely seemed to register his hands being bound at the wrists. Winston barrelled back through the broken garage door, disappearing into the darkness beyond. McCree heard distant shouting – the soldiers.

Another person stormed into the garage, his figure dark and imposing. One of the Asian men.

“With me!” he roared, his voice somehow loud enough to project but level enough to leave no doubts that he was not fearful or shaken. He was mad. He was ready for action.

The small wolf had disappeared but McCree had not noticed where it went. Somehow the other man had the end of the chain in his hands and with a jerk, McCree was pulled along further inside the house. The man barely spared a glance for McCree, it was all business. A task to be done. McCree hesitated to think what that task might be. Perhaps his gallows were not to be a muddy patch of grass, but rather an abandoned hoarder's chaise lounged living room. He stumbled over his own feet, the leading man setting a quick pace. War still raged outside. The gunshots were more muffled behind the walls of the house, but now roars and howls joined their chorus. McCree couldn't tell how many wolves were out there, but there was a great number of them and they were angry. Something in his heart stirred. A call to action. He refused to let himself answer it. He was not one of them. This wasn't who he was. He had no quarrel with these people. McCree dug in his heels, grinding to a halt on the dusty hall carpet. The man holding him hostage paused as he jolted when the chain's slack gave out. He turned to look McCree in the eye – finally. All McCree saw was fire.

“Move.” he demanded.

“Y'all'd kill an unarmed man?” McCree's voice was flighty with exertion, and he winced as he suddenly began to feel every ache and pain blossom – his thigh was cut, his teeth felt like they'd cracked when he hit the ground, his shoulder might be strained. He wasn't completely sure he was unarmed. Peacekeeper had been on his belt when he left the car, but he was so numb from pain all over he couldn't tell if she had fallen off in the chaos.

“MOVE.”

The Asian man, a head smaller than McCree, stepped up to him and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. McCree expected to resist, but the little man was stronger than he looked. Much stronger. McCree succeeded in doing little more than tousling his own hair as a finger and thumb pinched either side of his neck in a vice and forcibly pushed him forward, the shoulder in his back driving him forward.

He was shoved into a room, snarling at the suited werewolf man whose dark eyes burned with fiery anger that had him staring straight ahead with a clenched jaw. McCree was shoved into a sturdy dining room chair and the Asian man began to rope him down with an even longer, thicker chain that rested nearby. McCree kicked at him wildly.

“Hey!” he shouted, struggling despite the firm hold his captor had on him.

He was given no response except for a sharp blow to the temple with an open palm. It was swift and blinding, and very clearly well practised. McCree's vision instantly blurred and he wobbled in his seat, the room wavering in and out of focus sickeningly. He felt himself gasping, the action cracking the dried blood on his face which stung like a row of pinpricks and blood trickled from the cuts anew. He was dimly aware of the Asian man binding his arms and legs to the chair, but he was too dazed to fight back.

Chaos bloomed in and out of focus around him. The large glass window at the forefront of the room showed only pitch black darkness but shouts and roars punctuated the night. McCree thought he saw the flicker of flashlights in the distance, but he couldn't be sure. The other man hurried away as soon as he was certain that McCree had been tightly secured, unmoving in his hazy state. McCree couldn't say how long he was sitting there – it couldn't have been more than a few minutes - but he had just started to pull together his senses into something vaguely resembling consciousness and alertness to begin trying to wriggle his way out of his bonds when the door to the room burst open.

A stream of people entered, chattering away urgently among themselves, some voices rising above others but McCree couldn't make out any of the specific things they were saying. He was getting nowhere struggling against the metal loops around his wrists and legs. The chair rattled below him as the room filled with people, their eyes angrily trained towards him.

“He's one of them,” McCree heard a nearby woman hiss, blood soaking through a tear in her sleeve, though she seemed to be paying the injury very little mind.

“-ask him-”

“-make-”

“-he'll pay-”

McCree screwed his eyes shut, trying to clear his head.

“I'm no'... I'm not...” he struggled to form words through his bruised and beaten mouth, “I dunno what-”

“Who are you?” somebody demanded of him.

McCree focused his eyes on the giant mass before him. A werewolf, he realised with mild surprise.

“Answer me!”

A _talking_ werewolf, McCree realised with even more surprise. The talking werewolf from before. Wilson? No, Winston. He wasn't sure that a talking wolf was even possible, butnobody else seemed to be as surprised by this as he was (although that wasn't much of a metric with which to judge how “normal” this situation was).

“M'name is Jack Morrison,” McCree mumbled thickly, squinting in the bright lights as all eyes were on him. It was the first name that came to mind, and one he had used to keep a low profile on his travels in the past.

A few of the room's occupants exchanged uneasy looks.

Winston regarded him with a sharp, calculating scowl. McCree wondered why he didn't change back into a human.

“Hanzo and Genji have gone on patrol,” a tall woman, vibrant pink hair spiked in a short style on top of her head, whispered from behind Winston. He was clearly their leader if they were all reporting to him. McCree sized Winston up. As he was trying to think of the smartest move for getting out of this situation alive, several things happened at once in quick succession. The first was Winston drawing a tiny pair of gold rimmed spectacles from the nearby table between his massive claws with an unprecedented level of gentleness and putting them on his canine face. The second thing was a wolf howling, loud and clear – a scout and his hunting cry. The third thing was McCree's eyes sliding past Winston's now bespectacled face to the window outside, where a howling wolf was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. A huge wolf.

A _white_ wolf.

McCree’s heart hammered in his chest, beating at a wild, uneven pace. Adrenaline slammed through his veins until they burned, the air squeezed from his lungs like an iron claw tearing through his ribs to crush his insides until his head swam and his hands shook. The edges of his vision butted, growing darker, darker, darker until he was sure he was blinded. Still the image of the white wolf stayed, burned so deep into his retinas that it was carved into his very soul itself. A ghostly sleet of numbness prickled across his skin, leaving a trail of icy hot static creeping down his spine and cold sweat on his face.

It started with an ache in his bones that throbbed in time with his erratic heartbeat. It pulsed from deep within him, some place dark and empty like an endless void of space condensed into every bit of marrow and cartilage that held him together. The room around him began to shrink, smaller and smaller, the perspective warping and shifting as his eyes glazed in and out of focus. The chair beneath him rattled and shook, rocked by tremors like they were caught in the middle of an Earthquake. His head lolled back, his limbs limp, as something evil ripped its way to the forefront of his being, taking over his every thought until it dominated his sense of self. He was nothing more than a shell, a slave to the beast that puppeteered his body like a grotesque marionette.

McCree felt like he was swelling, something pushing against his skin from the inside – from the empty place that ached in his joints. The pressure built higher and faster until he was sure he would explode, but he never did. He just kept growing. His arms ballooned before his eyes, ropes of muscle wrapping around his limbs like giant, grotesque snakes beneath his skin which grew darker and more uneven, and soon McCree was covered in a mess of short, patchy hair. Multiple seams split along McCree’s clothes accompanied by a sharp rip, splitting apart as his body rapidly outgrew them. The chains holding him down began to cut into his skin as he doubled in size, a visceral thing to behold in both sight and _sound_. There was a sickeningly wet crack and McCree’s gurgle of agony became a hoarse growl as his facial features began to shift and elongate, the chain around his ankles finally splintering with a metallic crackle that McCree did not seem to notice let alone be pained by, despite the sheer brute force that must have been required to shatter steel like glass.

McCree brought a giant fist down to steady himself, writhing in pain, succeeding in smashing the chair’s wooden backing to bits. The whole horror show only took a few seconds. One moment there was a man being held prisoner in the parlour, the next, a wild wolf stood over a broken pile of wooden debris and splintered chain links, his eyes wide and crazed, spittle foaming at the corners of his bared teeth. The matted, shaggy fur that covered his body was a deep shade of wiry brown that stood on end, bristling with his movements as he surveyed his surroundings with a keen gaze.

Somebody cursed – the voice was soft, _a woman’s voice_ – and another joined her in a panicked cry. Suddenly, the cacophony around them was deafening, voices melding in to one as the other occupants of the room scurried around in some kind of frenzy. The wolf paid them no mind. He looked to the moon through the large arched windows and saw the silhouette of a gleaming snow white beast on its ridges and felt something primal tug at his core. He lowered himself to the ground, wound tight like a coil ready to spring. Time stood still for a fraction of a second, everybody frozen in place like a chaotic mise en scene as their shouts muffled into one another in the back of the wolf’s perception, muted as though drowned below water.

Then suddenly he was moving. He leapt forward, crossing the room in two long, galloping strides, speeding up with each powerful push of his hind legs until he collided with the arched window. There was an almighty crash, an opera of crunching and tinkling as the glass blew out into a million pieces, the shards raining to the ground below the window sill. The sharp edges cut at the wolf’s body, but his thick coat protected him from what would have surely killed a human man. The sting of those shards that managed to make it through his pelt was nothing compared to the adrenaline rush coursing through every fibre of his body. He streaked through the night, paws digging deep into the cool dirt beneath him before launching forward, muscles tightening and extending like a great machine. Everything melted away except for the sound of his breath hissing through his fanged teeth in humid butts, and the pounding of his heart in his ears in sync with the thundering sound of his sprint. A few damp patches of fur clumped together, fused with a dark red liquid that oozed up from their roots, where the window glass had managed to pierce flesh.

The white wolf turned to face him. His heart sang a battle cry and he sped forwards, charging with the force of a raging wind, tail whipping the air behind him. A howl rang out through the still night, reverberating around the low hanging moon but whether it came from the white wolf or the wild one, no one could say. The white wolf regarded his would be assailant with cool, calculating eyes. They were a glassy black in the moonlight, shining like a beacon in the dark. Then the white wolf turned on his heel and disappeared in a flash, his pace so quick and sudden it was like he flew more than ran. He darted in to the woods, the rabid, wild brown wolf gaining ground on him by the second.

Another howl cut through the trees, more urgent, more guttural. A war cry. The white wolf streaked ahead, a ribbon of brightness weaving through the dark trees with effortless grace. His feral pursuer snarled, leaping forward in a large bounding arc to sink his claws into the haunches of his prey. They both sprawled across the forest floor, a tangle of snapping muzzles and frenzied claws in a sea of dry leaves and dirt, stopping suddenly as they careened into a solid tree trunk. The wild wolf roared, baring his teeth into whatever part of the white wolf he could reach. His fangs sank through fur and flesh alike, until the taste of blood flowed hot and wet through his mouth, filling his tongue with the taste of burnt copper. The bite was not very deep, but it was enough to draw blood and the white wolf growled a warning shot at the sight of red marring his pristine pelt. The wild wolf was not concerned by this. This was his chance for _revenge_ , for _closure_. The white wolf finally fought back, viciously turning the tables until his teeth were around the wild wolf’s throat.

Whatever the white wolf expected, it wasn’t for the wild wolf to go limp.

\--

“I think he’s coming ‘round…”

There was a faint hissing sound, like a release of steam through old rattled pipes. It was cold and McCree ached all over. He was slumped against a solid wall, the noisy water pipes protesting their use from the internal structures behind the bricks his head was rested against. His skull throbbed dully. He was inside in the old house.

Itchy hessian rope, thick as a desert python, was looped around his wrists and torso. He couldn’t see what he had been tied to, but he realized he was prevented from moving as he tried to struggle groggily to his feet. His headache made his vision swim, but he was dimly aware of two figures hovering over him and McCree had no way of telling if they were friend or foe.

“You-“ the words were thick with frothy spittle in McCree’s mouth, his slack jaw struggling to push the sounds out of his throat, “-you’re-“, he struggled weakly against the ropes that bound him down but they were too heavy, “y-yer-… ‘s… you…”

“What is he saying?” a stern voice spoke.

“I dunno, love,” a concerned woman nearby said, and then she was louder and clearer, as though her words were now directed at McCree himself, “you’re one of us?”

“What… wh-…’re you… sayin’… ‘m not… I ain’t…”

“We all saw it,” her voice was surprisingly gentle with concern, “you transformed.”

McCree’s eyes were beginning to cooperate and in the dim light from the ancient yellowed ceiling bulbs, he saw the shape of a short woman, her posture tense but possibly concerned, and a few paces back stood another figure, the deep lines of his face painting a picture of sheer irritation that even McCree could see in his current state.

The stern voiced man huffed behind her.

“He is hardly one of _us_.”

“Ahh Hanzo, you saw him! He transformed! He’s a Were like us!”

“He is _nothing_ like us.”

The woman clicked her tongue.

“Need I remind you, he _attacked_ me. I would bet good money he’s one of Amelie’s-” he spat dryly,”-Talon goons. We should kill him where he stands.”

“I ain’t standin’,” McCree slurred agitatedly. He felt like all the wind had been knocked out of him. He was struggling to remember what had happened. It was like trying to catch fog in a sieve… it was there, but he just couldn’t quite grasp it… he had been running…. running fast… the woods streaking by him… he was chasing something… but what…?

“Just because Amelie betrayed us, doesn't mean everyone is gonna. I’m just not so sure, Hanzo… he doesn’t look like a bad guy,” the woman hummed, and McCree’s eyes stopped swimming enough to get a good look at her. Short hair, a warm face. She was the bubbly girl with the thick English accent McCree had been watching through the window earlier. “Say…” she mused, frowning in scrutinised concentration at him, “why didja attack Hanzo? Who are you? What were you doin’ skulking around here?”

“I ain’t-… tellin’ you a thing…” McCree panted, the strain of trying to even stay conscious a grave tax on his fortitude. He didn’t have time for this. He had to think, he had to concentrate. There was something very, very urgent on the cusp of his consciousness and he _had_ to remember it, it was of vital importance, he knew it was. The thing he had chased through the moonlit woods… the shape up ahead it was… it awoke something inside of him… it was something intangible… a myth… a story… it was… it was white.

It was white.

McCree felt his blood run cold. Shaking, he turned to look up at the man standing in the room with them. The lines around his curved eyes gave them a certain semblance of wisdom, where the purple shade beneath his lashes undermined the appearance by making him seem somewhat weary. His brows were knitted together in a scowl, one that looked so natural to him McCree wouldn’t be surprised if he wore it constantly. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his arms folded stiffly over his chest. Black hair was pulled away from his head in a neat tie off and there was not so much as a crease out of place in his crisp business attire.

The white wolf.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!!” McCree roared suddenly, his voice cracked and hoarse, and the woman tumbled backwards with surprise, her shriek drowned by the deafening sound of McCree’s scratchy voice. Hanzo blinked, his expression still dark and unreadable.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” McCree bellowed, thrashing against the thick ropes that held him fast to something solid and unmoving, “YOU! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA?! A MONSTER! MONSTER! IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF _YOU_!!”

The woman scrambled backwards to her feet, her eyes wide and somewhat fearful. She glanced at the other man – Hanzo – looking to him with bewilderment plastered all over her face. He did not flinch. McCree’s relentless shouting did not seem to bother him at all. He murmured something to the woman and she nodded, scampering out the room without so much as a glance behind her. They were alone.

“JUST END IT ALREADY!!” McCree’s voice broke, his throat scratched painfully dry, his heart hammering in his chest. The backhand across his face was so unexpected it silenced him immediately, his head swimming from the mere brunt of the blow, the dark haired man standing over him cold as he flexed his knuckles pensively.

“Compose yourself,” he hissed, the disgust dripping from the knife edge of his words, “you grovel like a beaten dog when you are not worthy of calling yourself even that. I have seen what you are. You are an abomination. You should thank your Gods that Oxton will not let me kill you. I would much prefer to rid the world of your presence entirely.”

“Well-… well you already tried that once, didn’tcha? You already tried to kill me and it didn’t work. I lived. You turned me into… into that… that _thing_. That’s on you- that’s all on you- I never asked for… I don’t want to be whatever that is.”

“Pathetic.”

The door creaked as the woman returned, casting a wary eye McCree’s way and pulling herself up on her toes to whisper something in Hanzo’s ear. He listened, expression unchanging, not even bothering to look his way. Hanzo nodded once, and turned his back on McCree as he said something in return, in a voice so low McCree couldn’t make out the words over the sound of his own laborious breathing ringing in his ears.

“You sure?” the woman asked, concern painted clear on her face.

“Positive.”

They both turned to look at McCree. He sneered, trying to ignore the bubbling in his chest that threatened to spill out at any moment.

“Finally gonna end it then?” he spat, lips wet with spittle, “gonna finish what you started, Monster?”

Hanzo regarded him coldly.

“It is not safe here. A flight leaves for Japan tomorrow at six. You will come with us at that time, much to my chargrin but you are in luck – I owe Miss Oxton a favour.”

“I’m not going with _you_!” McCree rubbed his arms raw against the ropes holding him, “like hell! Go fuck yourself!”

“You should thank me. If you were left here, surely you would get your wish to finally embrace death,” a wry smile twisted through his lips, “but have no misunderstandings – this is not a kindness. You are a valuable asset. You have information we want, and if you cooperate it’ll be… _easier_. For the both of us.”

He turned on his heel, leaving with the woman in tow. She looked sheepish but oddly relieved.

“I won’t do it!” McCree yelled at their retreating backs, “I won’t talk!”

The door closed behind them.

“I WON’T COME WITH YOU! YOU HEAR?”

“ _Too slow,”_ he thought to himself, the walls suddenly closing in around him, _“unlucky.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. Cages

Japan was peaceful.

McCree hated that, because the way he had been brought to Japan was anything _but_ peaceful. Muzzled like a dog, bound like a mental patient on the verge of a psychotic break and strong armed onto a private jet by a thick-headed, muscle-bound idiot while he tried to kill the white wolf with nothing but his hateful glare. The white wolf didn't even look in his direction – not _once_. When they landed, a rough hessian bag was wrestled over his head and he was carted off into a vehicle and driven somewhere. It felt like they had been on the road for hours when finally, the car stopped and he was manhandled to his feet once again. Dragged through what felt like a rabbit warren, McCree's boots struggled to find purchase on what seemed to be hollow, wooden floors judging by the sound of his captors marching either side of him. There was a metal bit in his mouth preventing him from doing anything more than breathing heavily and snarling in the deep recesses of his chest. His face burned with indignant anger, while his mind raced and swelled with all of the choice words he was ready to unleash the moment he was able to.

They came to a stop and the bag was ripped off his face so fast it chafed the end of his nose. He levelled his red ringed eyes at the accursed son of a bitch in front of him. He was almost disappointed that it wasn't the white wolf but rather some nameless, faceless body guard. Of course the white wolf was too much of a coward to do his own dirty work.

He was unshackled and the muzzle removed without so much as a word or a glance in his direction.

“Hey!” he shouted the second his mouth was freed. His throat was scratchy dry with dehydration and the sound came out as a weak, cracked squeak. He tried to lunge at the black suited guard but he had been in uncomfortable bindings for so long it took a second or two longer than usual to get his limbs working and he succeeded in nothing more than staggering into the wall as the door was closed behind him and the sound of a deadbolt being locked slammed through the air like a gunshot.

Breathing erratically, McCree clutched his arms to his chest as he looked around his prison, rubbing his forearms vigorously in the hopes of coaxing his circulation in to returning. It was an odd shape, like a large hexagon and seemingly built from wood pillars and stone. Some of the walls were replaced with panels of wooden bars, like a cell. It was cold, and McCree felt a slight draught whisper by his feet. He stumbled towards the wooden bars, gripping the columns tightly in his shaking hands as he peered out into the darkness beyond. With a shock of surprise he realised the light coming from outside his cell was none other than the _moon_ – illuminating the shadowy shapes of trees and other buildings just outside his reach. He was outside. A fire of adrenaline pulsed through his veins. If the white wolf thought this kennel would be enough to hold him he was a fool, but if he thought leaving McCree outside, inches from freedom, was a safe option he was a genuinemoron.

McCree strained his ears, seeking out the tiniest of sounds he was physically capable of. _All quiet on the Western front_. Not a single, solitary sound – it seemed like the guards had disappeared, leaving him more than free to escape this hell hole. Who knows what would happen then – maybe he'd just go home. Maybe he'd get his revenge first. The possibilities were endless.

Taking a careful step backwards, McCree glanced outside the wooden cell as a last precaution before throwing all his weight against the bars. He expected wood that thin to buckle immediately. Not only did the wood hardly even creak, but the force knocked McCree flat on his ass. Wincing with pain, he scrambled to his feet and tried again. It might just take a few goes but there's no way that a man of his size and weight couldn't muscle his way out of this insultingly unguarded birdcage. He threw himself at the same panel with much the same results. He tried again, and again, and _again, and again_ until he collapsed in a pile of bruises and anguish. The bars may as well have been made from reinforced concrete and steel for all the good his battering ram performance did. There's no way regular wood like that wouldn't have even splintered _just a little_ from how hard he was smashing himself into it over and over again. It just wasn't possible.

He didn't cry... he was right there in that neighbourhood though. Suspended, frozen in that moment just before tears came, though none ever did. He had never felt truly hopeless before, but lying on his side on the stone floor, with the wide open outdoors _just outside of his grasp_... it certainly felt _close_ to what he imagined hopelessness felt like. The dull throb of all his bones and muscles protesting the black and blue blossoming beneath his clothes was his only company as the breezy chill of the night embraced him as a mother embraces a child.

By the time McCree came back to his senses, the sun was rising outside. He wasn't sure if he had slept or not, as his consciousness had dulled like a weathered knife and all he could think about was how easy it should have been to get out of here. McCree had beat his hands raw, his knuckles sore and bloodied in attempt after attempt to escape, but no matter how much he tried there was not a single brick nor bolt in the entire damn room that could be shook loose. He was a sitting duck, with nothing to do but wait for his turn at the gallows.

He didn't see a single other person the entire first day he was there – he could only hear the sounds of life beyond his cage, tormenting him. The peaceful lullaby of foreign birds, the thrum of every day people driving their every day cars in the distance, and the light, gentle rustle of wind in the trees. No matter how much he slammed against the wooden bars, no matter how much he screamed himself hoarse, it didn't seem to attract anyone's attention. If there even _was_ anyone within hearing range. For all he knew he had been left for dead and it wouldn't have surprised him one bit. He was slowly reaching a fevered pit of desperation that had him entertaining the idea of calling upon the... he _thing_ inside him. It had come out at other times of need, maybe he could coax it out now. As loathe as he was to even acknowledge the monster that slumbered beneath the thin surface of his skin, it was a sure sight better than the possibility he would die a slow, painful death from dehydration or starvation in a prison thousands of miles from home. Of course now of all times, the one time he dared to tap into the dark caverns of his mind, the monster lay dormant. Unresponsive.

 _Fat lot o' help you are_ , McCree thought to himself bitterly.

It was early morning the following day when a guard appeared outside the bars. Dressed in a simple black suit, he was somehow both unassuming and imposing, his face so blankly unreadable that McCree wasn't sure if it was the same guy from yesterday or not. The guard carried a tray with a few plain, coloured bowls arranged on top. The smell of food accompanied him. McCree’s stomach growled. He felt betrayed by it, as he had staunchly resolved that he would touch not so much as a drop while he was prisoner here. They could dress up their hospitality however they liked but the Shimada Family were his enemies, and he was resolved to send them a message that he was not one to be caged easily let alone tamed into acquiescence.

The guard let himself in to McCree's cell with no hesitation. He did not fear McCree in the slightest. The tray was set down on the floor at the center of the room and the guard left with as little fanfare with which he had come, locking the bars behind him. McCree glanced at it. A paltry offering – as if he would be as weak and as simple minded to-

McCree scurried up to the tray the second the guard closed the door behind him. There was a bowl heaped with steaming rice, a bowl of clear, soupy liquid and something aromatic that had a slightly sweet scent to it. A spoon sat on the tray. Tempting him. Calling to him. His stomach yearned for food – he hadn’t eaten since the packet of beef jerky what must have been aeons ago by now – and McCree cursed as he felt his will weakening by the second.

 _What if it was poisoned_ , he chastised himself as he sculled the blisteringly hot soup, sitting cross legged on the cold floor. _D_ _on’t be a fool,_ he argued with himself, _they wouldn’t have_ _brought_ _you all this way to feed y' poison soup._

McCree had finished licking every last drop from the bowls when the guard returned. He had a snappy remark at the ready but it died on his tongue as the guard dragged him wordlessly to his feet. He wrested his arm away from the guards grip but he was stronger than he looked, and his fingers dug into the already bruised muscles of his shoulders making him hiss with discomfort. McCree wanted to fight him, he really did, but the moment he was pulled to his feet he realised he hadn't rested since before Oregon and the comforting warmth of food in his belly had no qualms about reminding him of that – lulling his brain into a foggy, sleep deprived haze that struggled to remain conscious let alone energised enough to fight. Listlessly, McCree let himself be lead away with little protest. He had been manacled again, and lead outside of his cage into a stylish courtyard. Trees fringed with pink blossoms fanned themselves on a light, sweetly scented breeze and the grass stirred beneath his feet. At any other time it might have been beautiful, but McCree had no energy left to appreciate the simple beauty of this lavish architecture when he was resigning himself to his imminent death.

McCree was ushered past the gardens and through a large stone archway that lead to the inside of what looked to be a castle. Beyond the foyer he could see a large, open space, with very traditional Japanese decoration. It looked a bit like the inside of a temple. The foyer branched off into a labyrinth of undecorated corridors, leading deeper into the heart of the ancient structure. McCree found himself shoved down one such hallway, twisting and turning as they approached an undisclosed destination. He was lost before he even had the forethought to remember the path taken to his final resting place. What good what it do anyway. It's not like he was going to escape. It's not like he even _could._ He might die of sheer exhaustion before they could even get him to the executioner's chair.

McCree was shepherded into an unassuming room beyond one of the many unmarked doors, a single window on the far wall a taunting mirror to the peaceful outside world. The guard removed his cuffs, shoved him into a seat at the table in the center of the room and departed in silence, leaving McCree nursing his stiff wrists for only a second before the door swung open again. McCree turned to look and was unsurprised to see a familiar man – no, calling him a man was a disservice to his vileness – the _white wolf_ himself on the threshold. Cold and cruel, the white wolf was like a blizzard personified, hostile and unforgiving by nature.

“What do you want?” McCree snarled, pressed against the back of his chair as the other man also took a seat at the table.

“I'm here to ask you some questions.”

“I won't answer,” McCree said thickly, crossing his arms.

“We'll see.”

“I ain't singin'. Especially not to some yellow bellied coward who ain't even got the balls to tell me his name when he-” McCree growled hoarsely.

“Hanzo Shimada,” the other man replied simply, a glimmer of irritation faltering across his otherwise hardened features.

Hanzo made himself at home with no concern that he was sitting with a monster ready to succumb to his blood-lust for revenge any second now. Then again... why would he? He was a monster too. Perhaps even a bigger one than McCree. McCree flicked his head, eyebrows raised in a sarcastic invitation.

“So-” Hanzo's eyes were sharp and beady, like those of a well trained hawk, “why don't you tell me again what your name was?”

McCree experienced a brief flash of panic as he struggled to remember what his original alibi was.

“Je-...Jack Morrison,” McCree answered uncertainly.

Hanzo quirked an eyebrow with just a dash of scepticism.

“Jack Morrison,” he echoed, shifting so that his elbows rested on the table between them, “not a very common name, Mister Morrison.”

“What would you know?” McCree shot daggers back, his shoulders as stiff as rocks.

Hanzo quietly considered this retort. He was in no hurry, and it showed. He was most content to take his time, to question the scruffy American man at his leisure. He left it to no illusion who between them was in control of the conversation.

“Where are you from... Mister Morrison?” Hanzo asked, his voice light and cordial, as though meeting with a friendly acquaintance.

“Nowhere you ever been,” McCree scoffed, folding his arms in on themselves.

“Humour me,” Hanzo's reply was near instantaneous. Sharp as a tack.

McCree rolled his eyes, both in defiant frustration of his present captor, and also to buy himself a second of time to think. Where was Jack from again..?

“Indiana.”

Hanzo continued to make eye contact, his expression harsh yet neutral. McCree struggled to look into his eyes for too long. They were piercing, as though reading the words in his head from right behind his eyes, unravelling his lies piece by piece. _Don't sweat, Jesse_ , McCree thought to himself in a strong, reassuring cadence, _he don't know me from a bag o' rice_.

“Hmm,” was all Hanzo said.

“Why the twenty questions?” McCree sneered, hoping to regain some illusion of confidence despite a hammering heart threatening to beat right on out of his ribcage.

Hanzo absently touched a ring on his finger. It looked expensive, and the gesture seemed to be a subconscious habit.

“It's curious,” Hanzo began mildly, “I've met Jack Morrison.”

McCree's heart either stopped, or sped up to such a frantic speed he could no longer feel it.

“And you-” Hanzo continued, “are not him.”

“Well... p-plenty o' Jack Morrisons where I'm from. Ain't exactly an uncommon name in the States, ya know,” a bead of sweat was dampening the prickly hairs of his lip as he dug himself deeper into the lie.

“Is that so?” Hanzo tilted his head slightly, as though mulling the thought over in his head like a stone being slowly turned over and over, chaffed smooth by the tides of a gentle stream, wearing down the outer layer and exposing everything that lay beneath.

“Yeah?” McCree shrugged non-committally. He reckoned that Hanzo was buying it... or at least, he hoped he was.

Hanzo stood, pulling his crisp suit jacket back into place with a swift tug. He reached inside the breast of the black jacket, and smoothly withdrew a gun from his side holster. McCree recoiled immediately, eyes widened with shock. His mouth fell open when he realised that the reason the gun looked out of place in the hands of this stranger was because it was _his_ gun. Peacekeeper.

“A beautiful piece of work, this is,” Hanzo held the gun gently between his two palms, appraising it as a jeweller would a nice cut of diamond, “I assume this is yours? Yes, it looks the part. One of my associates found it outside of the manor where you were spying on us.” Hanzo held the gun up and gave it a little wave. “Come to cross a name off your list?”

“I carry it as an insurance policy,” McCree narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. He didn't like his baby in the hands of someone so despicable. “I wasn't plannin' on usin' it unless I had to.”

“Do you know what else was found outside the manor?” Hanzo's tone remained light, but there was a dangerous, cutting edge to the accented lilt now. One McCree was none too eager to be burned by.

“What?” McCree's eyes were narrowed so far now they were all but a squint. He wouldn't let the white wolf know that he was scared. He wanted the white wolf to fear him. He _should_ be fearin' him. He said Peacekeeper was an insurance policy, well what with the object of his feverish revenge fantasies standing right in front of him, McCree thought it was high time he cashed in.

“A car,” Hanzo went back to admiring the gun in his hands, turning it over to get a better look at the handle, “and _inside_ the car... a wallet.”

 _Shit_.

“In that wallet,” Hanzo continued, “were several cards of identification, all bearing different names – how curious is that?”

McCree's mouth clamped shut. He could feel his pulse in his stomach, racing in time with every word from his captor's mouth. The demon inside of him whispered down the back of his neck, a wild growl that grew into a snarl in the cavities of his bones themselves. He fended off the call, like always when the _thing_ threatened to get out.

“What I find _most_ interesting, is that there was no ID for a Jack Morrison. No driver's licence. No bank cards. Not even a loyalty card for whatever greasy, lowbrow diner _your_ kind frequents. ”

McCree could feel himself being backed into the metaphorical corner, and he could see no way out. Escape routes were slamming shut before his very eyes. The room suddenly felt much smaller, and Hanzo much bigger. Hanzo began to pace, truly the vision of a predator taking one last moment of peace before striking his prey. There was a gleam of recognition in Hanzo's eyes, but it was impossible that he would recognise McCree from all those years ago... wasn't it?

“I find it very interesting...” he raised a hand, finger pointed to the sky as though for emphasis as his back was turned to McCree, “that you would choose the name Jack Morrison as an alias, when any other name would do. To anyone else, that would be just a regular name... but how _unfortunate_ for you that I am not just anyone else.” Hanzo turned on his heel. “The real Jack Morrison is dead, is he not?” McCree stiffened in his seat. “So you have chosen this name as a homage... perhaps to a fallen comrade?”

McCree's blood was as cold as ice by this point. How much did this guy know? _How_ _did this guy know?_ Had he been recognised after all..?

“So tell me,” Hanzo strolled casually up to McCree, until he loomed above him, “ _who are you_?”

McCree inhaled sharply as he found himself staring down the barrel of his own gun. He couldn't let it end this way – slain by his own trusty weapon, in the hands of a crazed monster, in a land so far from home. Like a beacon of hope, a door opened itself to him in that moment – a way out of this situation. It sickened him, but he had no other options left.

He was going to have to cooperate.

Hanzo waited patiently, still as a statue with his finger on the trigger. He meant business, McCree could tell by the humourless stone wall that was his face. He seemed like the kind of guy who _always_ meant business.

“Jesse McCree,” came his sullen reply, voice strained.

McCree breathed a sigh of relief as the business end of his own firearm was swiftly pulled back from between his eyes,

“McCree,” Hanzo repeated, and a shiver ran down McCree's spine at the utterance. He was sickened by the sound of his name on this accursed beast's tongue. He didn't deserve to know his name. He didn't deserve to _say_ it. Hell, he didn't deserve the damn air he was breathin'.

“Go to hell,” McCree spat on the ground, glaring at Hanzo with contempt.

Hanzo merely looked down his nose at McCree, searching for something or perhaps committing McCree's face to memory.

“I think we're done for today,” he announced curtly, straightening the cuff of his dress shirt and holstering Peacekeeper inside of his jacket. Turning sharply, he left the room in a brisk stride, not even sparing a backwards glance for McCree. A guard soon entered the room, cuffing McCree and returning him to his outdoor cage.

 

\----

 

At the very least, McCree was getting fed regularly now. Always around the same time – mid morning if the sun's position was anything to go off of, and always the same dishes, carried by what he assumed was the same stone faced man. Some rice, some vegetables, some broth. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. Not like his current sleeping arrangements. His cell was open to the elements, so any cold breeze or glaring sun was free to disturb and disrupt him at Mother Nature's discretion. He had not been given anything in the way of bedding, so when sleep finally did come to him it was his bruised and battered arm being used as a pillow while he shrugged as far into his civilian clothes as he could. It certainly wasn't his first time roughing it, but he was too proud to so much as ask for anything in the way of creature comforts from the Shimada Family and any of their black-suited clone army.

 

\---

 

Three days after learning of McCree's true identity, Hanzo graced him with his presence once again. Haloed by a clear blue sky and patches of silvery butts behind him, McCree squinted in his direction with as much disdain as his face would allow.

“What _now_?” he demanded standoffishly. The last pleasant conversation he'd had with another human being was all the way back in Santa Fe with Athena. Leaving a man alone in his own head for so long created some rather explosive results when it came to diplomatic communication.

“Are you ready to talk?” Hanzo's authoritative voice was like a knife through air. McCree didn't want to _talk_. He was ready for _action_.

“Oh darlin',” McCree sneered hatefully, spreading his arms wide, “I got all the time in the world here. Ain't exactly goin' anywhere now am I. Don't mean I'm gonna tell you a damn thing though.”

Hanzo sniffed derisively, looking around the cell with his hands clasped lightly behind his back.

“We shall see.”

“Will we now,” McCree's sardonic drawl dripped icily from his tongue.

“If you cooperate,” Hanzo said in a level tone, “this will be much easier on the both of us. Trust me when I say I loathe the mere concept of Shimada Castle harbouring an abomination such as yourself, even if you are under lock and key. For you to even be here... to waste the air of my countrymen and walk the ground of my ancestors who fought with everything in their power to prevent the likes of you from ever existing... it is an insult to men who are far greater than anything you could ever hope to surmount to.”

McCree quirked an eyebrow.

“Big talk comin' from the man responsible. I ain't ever asked for this, you know,” McCree snapped back, “I'd be damn well happy for you to take this gift away and I could be outta your hair faster than you know it.”

Hanzo pursed his lips.

“Your comprehension of your own position never ceases to amaze me,” Hanzo replied with a slight shake of his head.

“Enlighten me then,” McCree tapped his finger against his lower lip, “y' keep callin' me an abomination. It's cause I'm a werewolf, right? Ain't you turn into a fuzzy lil bunny too when the full moon comes out?”

Hanzo's jaw visibly locked.

“I was _born_ into my wolf,” his voice was taut with hostility, “ _you_ were not. The Shimada Clan are the oldest line of werewolves in the _world_. I will not have you sully the name with such trite misunderstandings.”

“Izzat so,” McCree scratched his beard. It had grown a little scruffier during his confinement. “Don't think yer exactly in a position to complain.”

“And why is that?” Hanzo's eyes flashed in warning.

McCree's pulse sped up. He was playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man.

“Couple o' years ago now, I was a regular ol' man. 'Til one day I was attacked... never was the same after that night. Imagine my surprise when I woke up, trapped in th' body of a giant wolf! That sorta nonsense only happens in fairy tales, don't it? Yet there I was, on all fours an' howlin' at the moon what like a beast outta my Mama's stories. Them werewolves in the horror films all turned cause they got bitten, right? I figured that's wha' happened to me.”

There was a pregnant pause in which McCree waited for Hanzo to confirm or deny his suspicions. He felt as though they were stronger than mere speculations, as surely this was the only way something like this could have happened to him. Before that night, he didn't even know werewolves existed. He would have laughed right in the face of anyone who said otherwise – and would have recommended they stay off the whiskey for a while.

“And you think I had something to do with this?” Hanzo asked tersely, vein popping agitatedly beneath his temple.

“Only one who coulda done it,” McCree pushed, “I done had the misfortune o' meetin' a few other werewolves since then. They were either born that way or bitten.” His palms were sweating with the weight of the knowledge that he was _this_ close to discovering once and for all what really happened that night.

Fast as a bullet from a gun, Hanzo struck McCree across the face with the back of his tensed palm. Thick, heavy rings on his fingers sliced rivers of red across McCree's cheeks where they raked his bare flesh. Crying out with pain, McCree recoiled, bringing his hands to his face and yelling something indistinguishable. Hanzo merely straightened one of the rings on his index finger.

“Enough,” he glowered, “I have had _enough_ of your ridiculous accusations. Anyone capable of transforming when it was not in their blood to do so _stole_ that ability. It is not their power to wield. They are _abominations_ and should be _destroyed_.”

“Why in the hell would anybody steal this?” McCree pressed his hand to his stinging face. “I never signed up for this shit!”

Hanzo's snarl was so menacing, it twisted his entire features into a terrifying grimace.

“You are in my house!” he bellowed, “you are in _my castle_ _!_ You will speak only when spoken to. If I wanted your asinine thoughts on matters far beyond your understanding I would ask for them – and then promptly have myself killed for demonstrating signs of incurable insanity. You are a less than a _dog_ to me. The only reason I do not execute you on the spot is because you are temporarily of use to me. I have now confirmed you have information I seek, and if you will not volunteer that information willingly then I will gladly result to alternative methods.”

“You're a reaaal nasty piece of work, you know that,” McCree whistled, flexing his jaw and spitting a mouthful of blood on the ground. He flinched when Hanzo raised a hand once more, though his simple fear response seemed satisfy Hanzo.

“Be grateful to whatever garbage Gods you worship that I am so disgusted by you I am loathe to even sully my hands with your blood,” he hissed maliciously. McCree said nothing, simply held his stinging cheek as blood pooled on his tongue and ran red against his fingertips.

“Maybe if y'asked nicely,” McCree couldn't help the sass from slipping out. He was angry. White hot, blood boiling kind of angry. He could not wait for the moment he put a bullet between this vile, wretched man's eyes. He would savour that moment for the rest of his days.

His comment earned him another backhand, harder this time, and McCree's cheek stung until it was numb. It swelled instantly under his fingers, as a steady trickle of blood from the corner of his lip stained the collar of his shirt.

Hanzo turned his back and left like a burning ember is consumed by the fires of rage, barely stopping long enough to lock McCree's cage doors. McCree sort of wished he had forgotten to close up. _Wouldn't that have been sweet_ , he thought to himself, _wouldn't that be sweet indeed_.

 

\---

 

The next day, McCree was nursing his bruised cheek when the deadbolt of his cell rattled and the door swung open. He leapt to his feet, hands balled into fists and muscles tensed, ready to lunge at Hanzo. There had been no sound, no warning of approaching footsteps. Regardless, McCree would rush Hanzo, overwhelm him, overpower him, and _kill him_. Today was the day, today was the day, today was the day. The moment was _now-_

McCree stopped, mid-step.

A younger Asian man stood in the open door frame. It took him a moment through his tunnel vision, but McCree suddenly recognised him as the younger brother. He had seen him at the mansion in Oregon. The other man paused, hovering warily before choosing to enter.

“Hello,” he said, inclining his head. He held his hands out either side of his body, as if to clearly show he was unarmed. This did not cause McCree to relax. “I am Genji Shimada,” he offered, “I am Hanzo's brother-”

“Yeah, I know,” McCree eyed the newcomer suspiciously.

Genji seemed very interested in his face, eyes darting over the terrain of his cheek like he was cataloguing the visible damage.

“My brother did that to you,” he said simply, though there was an echo of a question to his statement.

“Oh yeah,” McCree folded his arms defensively, “nasty son of a bitch. You here to give me another? Your brother too scared of my dirty blood ruining his fancy clothes to do his own beatings now?”

Genji shook his head vigorously.

“I am not here to hurt you,” he stressed, his face grim yet serious. McCree felt like he had missed a step descending a set of stairs because for some strange reason he felt like Genji Shimada was telling the truth.

“Oh yeah?” McCree flicked his head sceptically, “why are you here then?”

Genji folded his lower lip between his teeth, pausing for a second before fixing McCree with a level, yet earnest stare.

“That is not of importance,” he replied. Genji produced a wad of bandages and an extra flask of water from his coat pocket. “Here,” he said, graciously laying the offerings on the ground at a non-threatening distance.

“Why the hell would you give me that?” McCree eyed the supplies with unease bordering on suspicious anger.

“I just want you to know... not all Shimadas are bad people,” Genji said contemplatively.

“Fuck off,” McCree replied.

Genji pursed his lips and shrugged ambivalently.

“Do with it as you will,” Genji backed out of the cell cautiously, keeping a keen eye on his surroundings.

McCree watched him go with a cocked eyebrow. When Genji returned several hours later to remove the evidence of his visit, he looked dismayed to find the pile of bandages exactly where he had left them, unmoved. McCree was slouched in the corner, folded in on himself defensively. He had jumped when Genji had entered, understandably on edge whenever he heard the rattle of his cell bars, but had slumped back down to the ground when he had ascertained that it was Genji and not the other Shimada brother. McCree barely looked at him, and Genji set about quietly gathering up the unused bandages and water canister. He expected the flask to be as untouched as the bandages, and it nearly clattered to the ground as his hand lifted a feather-light _empty_ canteen. The smallest beginnings of a smile graced his lips. McCree threw him a dismissive backwards glance, before returning to the endless monotony of staring at the wall.

 

\---

 

McCree hardly slept, but when he did it came to him in fitful, feverish bursts that left him feeling less rested than before he had drifted off. Hanzo visited him every other day. McCree lamented the lack of a mirror in his prison cell, as he was sure his face must be an impressive shade of black and blue by now. This was their routine now. Hanzo would glower and postulate and sprout some _nonsense_ and demand that McCree give him information – who he was, who he worked for, what he was doing in Oregon, what he knew of other abominations. Every time McCree would refuse. He didn't _have_ the answers to half of the shit coming out of Hanzo Shimada's smug little mouth, and the other half that he _did_ know, he would rather take to his grave. Sometimes he'd throw in a snarky reply for good measure. It didn't seem to matter what he did – whether he silently ignored the white wolf or mouthed off at him, every visit ended the same way. A good minute of solid beatings and Hanzo would leave in a stormy butt of rage.

Genji came to see him periodically. There was something in the tense way he carried himself, and the caution with which he held his visits that told McCree that somehow Hanzo did not know about them. No matter how rude or abrupt McCree was with the other Shimada brother, he usually came bearing small peace offerings. Typically it was extra water, since McCree only received one glass a day with his meals. Sometimes it was extra food. McCree ignored this until one day, the curiosity got the better of him. Once Genji was long gone, he undid the little handkerchief wrapped parcel left by the cell bars and was shocked to find several strips of beef jerky inside. Genji smiled when he collected the empty handkerchief at dusk, though wisely he chose to say nothing about it.

Genji always returned to hide the evidence of his presence in McCree's cell by nightfall. He was very careful to pick times where Hanzo seemed to be nowhere near the gardens, so his secretive attempts at placating the prisoner would not be discovered. He rarely stopped long enough to have much in the way of a conversation – McCree's hostilities must have struck a nerve with him. Yet he still returned time and time again to sneak McCree small courtesies. On one such visit, Genji brought with him a small bucket of luke warm water and a bar of soap. He muttered something about everyone being at a celebration for his father for the afternoon, so McCree would have plenty of time to wash if he wanted. It was the first gift McCree eagerly and graciously accepted, as the stench of two week's worth of blood, sweat and tears was beginning to sting his nose and make it even more difficult to sleep.

 

\---

 

McCree never saw Hanzo and Genji at the same time. Something about the two brothers made them seem as different as smoke and salt. Hanzo came to him like the herald of nightmares. All of his questions were the same – it didn't matter if he tried to drag McCree to the interrogation room inside the Palace, or if he grew fed up with McCree's lack of cooperation before he could so much as shackle him. _Who are you really? Where is your base of operations? Who do you work for? How did you know about Winston's manor and the meeting?_ Sometimes McCree made attempts to answer honestly for a laugh. _Jesse McCree. 'Murrica. M'self. Lucky guess._ Most of the time if he responded in such a way, Hanzo would not even stomach enough time with him to get him outside of his cell. McCree all but made a game of it, it was the only thing stopping him from going completely insane.

One day, something changed. When Hanzo showed at his cell doors, ripe and ready for the morning's attempted interrogation, Genji was shadowing him about a step behind. He was immediately different to how McCree he came to his cell bearing gifts, as today he seemed to echo Hanzo's cold hostilities like a weaker mirror of the genuine article. His eyes could not bring themselves to meet McCree's, ruining the intimidating effect. McCree could have sworn he saw Genji mouth the word _sorry_ once Hanzo's back was turned to them. McCree was lead back to the now familiar decoration-less shoebox of a room by an entourage of burly guards, and left in cuffs at the table. When Hanzo sat opposite him, Genji sat down too on the same side of the table. The Shimada brothers had a pile of papers strewn between them, though McCree was at the wrong angle to determine what they were.

“Do you know a man named Gabriel Reyes?” Hanzo asked and McCree nearly choked on his own tongue.

Just saying the name was like bringing the man back from the dead. He hadn't heard that name aloud in a long, long time, yet it was one that crossed his mind almost daily.

It seemed like a hundred or more years ago now, but once upon a time, Jesse McCree was a somewhat respectable member of a global peacekeeping organisation. He had been plucked from the middle of the slums by who he used to hail as a hero of a man – one Gabriel Reyes. For a long time, Reyes was the epitome of courage to him. Strong, resilient, and loved by his peers, it seemed like Reyes could do no wrong. But over time, that man changed and morphed until he was almost a completely unrecognisable husk of his former self, now scary and distant. McCree had never anticipated hearing the name of dead men fall from the lips of his greatest enemy in the world. His eyebrows jerked upwards and his lips fell dry from the shock, which did not go unnoticed. Hanzo smirked, victorious.

“Very well,” Hanzo adjusted the ring on his finger, settling back into his chair comfortably, “allow me to alter the question. What can you tell me about Gabriel Reyes?”

“I ain't know anybody by that name,” McCree mumbled, shrinking further inside of himself, shoulders hunched and his eyes stuck on the cornices of the room like they were the most fascinating things he'd ever seen.

“Liar,” Hanzo insisted. This continued for several minutes, with Hanzo growing angrier and angrier despite how calm he was clearly trying to keep himself. “Genji,” Hanzo finally snapped and the other Shimada brother jumped in his seat as though cattle-prodded from a particularly captivating daydream.

Genji muttered something unintelligible in Japanese. Hanzo replied, also in his mother tongue so McCree had no idea what they were discussing. By the way Genji's face twisted into a petulant scowl, it was very clear that the younger brother was not happy with what his brother was saying. Genji was shaking his head. McCree glanced between them, unease rising in the back of his mind as the Japanese conversation turned to raised voices and obvious bickering. He strained to pick out words from what they were saying, but for all he knew it might as well have been French. He didn't know a lick of Japanese beyond _sushi,_ and a fat lot of good that was doing him now.

 _Dah-meh!_ , Genji kept repeating, _dah-meh!, dah-meh!_. McCree wished he knew what that meant. Hanzo's speech was an eloquent string of poetic syllables edged with the severity of his demands, that much was obvious just from observing their body language. Hanzo gestured at McCree. Genji looked at him, then back at his brother, replying with some heated rebuttal. So they were arguing about him. Figures.

Finally, Hanzo thumped his hand flat on the table, mouthing off at Genji who recoiled like he had been slapped. He gaped slightly, as though Hanzo had said something completely shocking.

 _Zenyatta?_ , Genji asked incredulously. Hanzo looked deadly serious. McCree looked confused. What was a _Zenyatta_ and why did it have Genji so riled up?Genji pursed his lips, staring up at his brother, seething anger and hatred from every pore. After a moment he pushed himself away from the table with a loud, frustrated exclamation. The chair scraped and clattered and Hanzo's fierce expression turned to one of smug triumph.

Much to McCree's surprise, Genji wheeled around the table, coming right for him. He seemed to look through McCree, gazing past him as though he wasn't even there as he grabbed the front of McCree's shirt and landed a punch square against his cheek bone. McCree yelped in pain and surprise. He had thought Genji was on his side. Whatever Hanzo said to him had him angry though, and the punch had landed square in the middle of a patch of bruises so kindly given to him by Hanzo over the last few weeks.

“Tell us what you know about Gabriel Reyes!” Genji shouted, punctuating his outburst with a short, sharp blow. McCree reeled, flinging his arms up to shield himself as he vehemently denied anything and everything.

McCree spat blood defiantly at his assailant, and a streak of red splattered against Genji's chest. He looked down, taking a second to stare at where the stain was ruining a shirt that was likely more expensive than any McCree had ever owned in his life. He exhaled slowly, his eyes fixated on the crimson splatter soiling his clothes. His dark eyes flickered back to McCree, face reddened and bloodied. It was like the reality of what he was doing was a surprise and had only just sunk in. McCree's vision was swimming. Taking so many regular blows to the head probably wasn't doing his brain cells any favours, and his left eye was swelling shut and making it hard to see clearly.

“If he won't talk, take him outside and _leave him there_ ,” Hanzo demanded.

Genji dropped the front of McCree's collar, brushing his hands off as though they were covered with dirt despite being quite clean. McCree was returned to his cell, left with the phantom shadows of old memories and old colleagues he had been pushing to the bottom of his memories for a long time.

When Genji snuck in to his prison cell the next morning he was unusually quiet, leaving a small napkin full of pistachios and a travel mug full of warm green tea. It was easily early afternoon by the time he came, and McCree's regular meal ticket was long overdue and likely not making an appearance at all today. He suspected Hanzo may have had something to do with that.

“Hey,” McCree flicked his head in acknowledgement, trying to get Genji's attention.

Genji jerked as if he instinctively wanted to respond except he stopped himself at the last minute.

“What's up with you?” McCree asked. Genji paused but did not respond. “Why didja do that yesterday?” He had thought Genji had been trying to make nice. To have him bow so readily to his brother barking orders was insulting. Genji swallowed, still averting his eyes. _Guilt_. McCree knew all too well how that kind of poison tasted on the tip of his tongue.

“I had wanted to prove to you that not all Shimadas are bad people,” Genji replied sullenly, glancing in McCree's direction, “but I guess, in the end, I only proved myself wrong.”

“Y' cut from the same cloth as yer brother after all?” McCree probed. Despite the bruises carried by his face, it was somehow harder to instil malice in his thoughts of the younger Shimada brother – maybe because his heart was already full of loathing for the other one.

“So it would seem,” Genji admitted, defeated.

McCree hummed throughtfully.

“That sucks,” he replied honestly. Genji half nodded, half shrugged.

“Hanzo... he...” Genji frowned at his own hands, a deep rooted frustration drawing deep lines on his face, “it does not excuse my actions, but he... there's something he knows.”

“Y' saying he blackmailed you?” McCree chewed his own tongue against the inside of his cheek in deliberation, “...underhanded... yeah, he strikes me as the type.”

“Yes,” Genji said, his words as emphatic with remorse as he could make them, “I had to protect somebody close to me.”

McCree reflected on this for a minute.

“Makes sense.”

“You know what that is like... right?” Genji asked.

McCree raised an eyebrow at him.

“What do you mean?”

“You know...” Genji prompted, gesturing vaguely, “that... Reyes man. You won't tell my brother about him because you want to protect him. That's... that's what I thought.”

As much as McCree wanted to deny it, he couldn't. It wasn't that he was protecting Reyes out of fondness or obligation, but some demons were better left un-summoned, and some stories were not meant to be told.

“Something like that,” McCree replied levelly.

“One day,” Genji muttered, hesitating at the threshold as he made to leave, “I will make this up to you.”

McCree huffed scornfully.

“I'll believe it when I see it,” he replied at Genji's retreating back, “ _I'll believe it when I see it._ ”

 

\---

 

A far away tune whispered on the wind, carried to the far reaches of an ancient castle. A flighty whistle, darting through octaves like a lark cuts through butts whipped through silent gardens. The upbeat intonation was misleading at a first listen, as it was actually quite a forlorn song. Melancholy masquerading as joviality.

The whistler – Jesse McCree. He stood, back reclined against the wooden bars as he whistled, letting his voice carry as far and wide as it could. He had long since gone stir crazy, trapped in the confines of this box while the man who destroyed his life roamed free. Where his home was an insurmountable distance away from him. Where his skills had failed him. Where his own monster had betrayed him, abandoning him at his darkest hour. When he was so desperate he was willing to even let that _thing_ in, just to escape and yet it lay unmoving, a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. Silence and animosity greeted him at every corner here as days and weeks pushed the horizon of a full month, maybe more, and then surpassed it with very little fanfare. Genji's visits grew less and less frequent, until they stopped completely – as did his brother's. Sometimes even the guard seemingly forgot to bring him food.

McCree jumped as the prison door swung inward suddenly, interrupting his vacant whistling.

“You,” McCree scowled.

Genji stood in the dark, only the moon casting light on to his grim features. He said nothing. McCree made no sound, no movement, just simply glared sullenly at the other Shimada brother as he approached. He left the door wide open, McCree noticed.

Genji paused halfway in to the cell and glanced behind him, peering in to the night as though waiting for someone. _No_. Looking for someone. His eyes darted from McCree to the open door and back again, scouring the darkness beyond.

“What do you want?” McCree drawled, shoulders tensed. Genji's eyes finally flickered back to McCree's, and McCree saw they were wide and afraid. “What?” McCree's tone shifted instantly without thinking, and he dropped his arms from where they were folded against his chest.

“You have to leave,” Genji replied softly, his whisper barely audible above the gentle singing of wind chimes in the distance.

“What?” McCree squinted as his heart skipped a beat, trying to make out more of Genji's face. The moonlight streaming through the bars caught the whites of his eyes and McCree saw genuine trepidation reflected in them.

“You should not be here. It is not right,” Genji's gaze flicked back over his shoulder as he whispered with growing urgency. He looked small, almost mousey, like he was trembling in the face of grave danger. Suddenly, McCree understood. Genji was setting him free.

“Why?” McCree screwed up his face, as suspicious as he was wary.

Genji cast his eyes to the ground at McCree's feet, wringing his hands slightly before him.

“My brother thinks you deserve to be punished just for what you are,” Genji said slowly, staring a thousand yards away through the stone, “he thinks any werewolf who was not born into such a life should be destroyed. People like you.” Genji suddenly looked at him, expression bordering on something like a plea. “I do not agree with him. You are an innocent man. You should not be behind bars.”

“Real nice of ya to think so,” McCree's exhaled sharply through his nose with sardonic mirth, his words dripped sarcasm and his hands caressed the fading bruises that lined his jaw.

“Here,” Genji ignored the jab, and pressed something in to McCree's hands. McCree's mouth fell open with a shock that rattled him so hard he nearly missed what Genji said next.

“Three guards have called in ill tonight, so it's skeleton staff in the castle. The only security is the Shimada's personal detail, and they are currently with my father in his study. Head towards the arch beyond and you'll see a gate. Keep close to the buildings and no-one should see you. Disappear in to the streets. By the time my brother discovers your absence you could be far away from here.”

It was Peacekeeper. Genji had given him Peacekeeper.

“ _Go_ ,” Genji urged him, standing aside so McCree's path was clear.

“Why should I trust you?” McCree asked sceptically, staring at his gun in awe. Her weight in his hand was such a comforting familiarity he could just about cry. Genji fixed him with a serious stare.

“I cannot stand by and let my brother torture an innocent man. He thinks you once helped to create abominations. I do not believe that is the truth. I think Hanzo is too easily swayed by his prejudices... and blinded by his hate. He will stop at nothing... he will break you down a hundred times without remorse until you are saying the words he wants to hear... regardless of whether they are true or not. Nobody deserves such a fate. Nobody deserves to feel nothing but my brother's rage.”

McCree felt a surge of emotion swell within him. Gratitude at the forefront and... _pity_ not far behind. What Genji was saying seemed to cut a deeper vein than McCree was capable of discerning.

“Where did you get this?” McCree held Peacekeeper aloft.

“I stole it from my brother's room. Hanzo is meditating in the temple right now. He will not notice for some time that it is missing.”

“You... you'll really let me go?” McCree hesitated a moment longer.

Genji nodded silently, as earnest as he could.

“ _Go,”_ he stressed the word louder this time, “ _go now!_ ”

And McCree took off running. He felt like he was soaring the moment his boots touched grass, and he lumbered through the darkness, wary of the unfamiliar terrain and burdened by stiff, unused muscles. His eyes strained to see the path ahead as he rushed in the direction Genji had pointed. He stumbled as he tripped on a flight of low stone steps leading to a cavernous archway. He barely registered the smarting pain of grazed palms and jarred knees as he scrambled back to his feet, fleeing towards freedom as quick as the adrenaline coursing through his veins would allow. He did not look back.

True to his word, Genji's advice was sound. There wasn't a guard in sight. The night was a silent as the air was still, meaning the deafening roar in McCree's ears was simply his pulse beating at a frenzied cadence as cold air burned his lungs. He gulped it down, savouring the harsh chill against his cheeks as he ran. A crazed, wild howl sung a victorious refrain in his heart, and for once McCree agreed with the sentiment.

He surged forward through the arch, keeping close to the stone buildings nearby as instructed. As he rounded a corner he saw a sight that welcomed him with warm, open arms. _Lights_. They drowned out the darkness, the vibrant imprint of a bustling street cutting up into the sky from where McCree could see the sky over the towering perimeter fence. His eyes slid lower and fell on the outline of an enormous wooden gate. It looked as though it had been barred shut, and McCree's heart sank, but he rejoiced as he noticed a sliver of light peeking through between a split through the middle. It had been left cracked open ever so slightly, undoubtedly Genji's doing. McCree crept over the stone path and approached the gate cautiously. He could hear the indistinct murmur of life just beyond. Cars rumbling warmly in the distance, conversations – too many and too far away to make out any voices, the boisterous cry of a shopkeeper. McCree paused, his hand resting on the heavy hardwood gate.

Just beyond these walls was his freedom. He would sprint away, blend in with a crowd somewhere, and disappear like a ghost. Once he was far, far away from the Shimadas, he could figure out the rest of the narrative to how he was getting home. But the first step outside these walls was the first step to closing the pages of a dark chapter. And yet... he stayed motionless at the gate. Something didn't feel right. A golden opportunity to escape lay waiting in welcome for him, beckoning him to the gracious liberty offered by the crowds of people just a step beyond his reach. He could see the light cast on the ground beside him, warm and inviting like the beckoning of a sultry finger. He was frozen, hand gripping the gate tightly as though his fingers may bore into it at any moment.

Then he turned around and ran back towards the castle.

_The only security is the Shimada's personal detail, and they are currently with my father._

It was insane.

_Hanzo is meditating in the temple right now._

But it was his only chance.

The grounds were still silent, barren of any other living soul just like they were moments ago when he had chased freedom. He chased a different kind of rise now. One there was no coming back from. One he had been hunting for years.

He ran back towards his cell, standing cold and unassuming in the middle of the gardens but this time he ran right past it, not stopping or slowing at all to check if Genji was still inside. Genji couldn't be that far away – it had only been a few minutes since McCree was set free. Genji didn't seem the type to linger on the scene of his treasons though and indeed as McCree raced past he was not stopped or heralded by anyone. The path before him lay clear of all obstacles. At last.

McCree approached the castle through the all too familiar archway, but instead of turning down into the corridor that lead to the room in which Hanzo regularly beat him, he continued forward into the open space he had seen in passing so many times before. He slowed to a cautious trot as he grew closer. A soft glowing light came from within and with it came the pungent, sweet aroma of burning incense. He peered around the doorway and noticed a lone figure hunched on the floor in the heart of the temple.

Quiet.

Alone.

McCree stepped silently into the temple, crossing an ornate wooden bridge that cut a mezzanine path from the open archways of the entrance to the inner sanctum. A gilded scroll stood twice his height on the far wall, the display of incense and offerings on the ground before it dwarfed by the scroll's size. A small coil of smoke wound through the air from a burning incense holder, a musky fragrance trailing in its wake. Hanzo knelt by the altar, as still and silent as though he were carved from marble. McCree's boots made no sound on the wooden floorboards. He was barely breathing. He was as fluid as water, drifting over the floor like a stray draught of cold autumn air, swift and silent.

He froze on the spot as Hanzo turned to look at him.

McCree stood in the middle of the temple floor, a neat tatami mat laid beneath his feet and gun like a thousand tonne anchor in his hand. Hanzo regarded him coolly over his own shoulder. His gaze slid from McCree's face to the weapon pointed at the floor in a vice grip. The lines around his eyes deepened in a frown. He made no sound as he rocked quickly from his knees to his heels and up into a standing position. He was the very model of austerity, looking down his nose at McCree from several paces away. If he was surprised to see McCree out of his cage, and armed no less, he did not show it.

“If you wish to kill me,” Hanzo began, his voice cutting through the air as clear as a bell, “you will need much, _much_ more than that.” His eyes flicked to the weapon and back again with a leisurely sort of arrogance. “Unless... it is _you_ who has the death wish? I would be happy to oblige.”

“You talk a whole damn lot for a man whose about to be pushin' daisies,” there was a bitter edge to McCree's raised voice.

“My patience for your absurdity has long since run out,” Hanzo shifted his weight on his feet and lunged at McCree, hands outstretched. There was an inhuman spring to his leap and by the time he landed, he had transformed. A mighty wolf came crashing into an unexpecting McCree at full force, knocking him prone and sending Peacekeeper sprawling across the floor. McCree scrambled after it, struggling under the weight of Hanzo in wolf form crushing his legs. He felt Hanzo's breath on the back of his neck, hot and wet and a snarl filled his ears. McCree's fingers clawed for his gun, barely grazing the cold metal barrel with the tips of his fingers before Hanzo's paw knocked it aside. McCree felt a flash of adrenaline that nearly blinded him.

An awful roar ripped itself from his throat – livid and menacing and for the first time McCree welcomed the feeling of his werewolf form stirring to life within the pit of his stomach. The transformation was nothing like Hanzo, who made it look fluid and painless. His transformation was pure agony, and terrifying to bear witness to. He felt himself shift and change, felt his bones snap and rearrange themselves, felt every sinew of muscle burn like it was on fire before settling in to place in his new body. His senses heightened at a rapid rate as he grew in size, knocking Hanzo off of him with a petrifying cry.

Hanzo doubled down, baring his teeth in warning. McCree paid the gesture no mind, and as soon as his transformation was complete he threw himself at his adversary. His teeth found flesh and he ripped with a crazed frenzy, blood pouring over his teeth in a sickening rush. Hanzo yelped, and battered McCree to the ground with a clawed paw, raking his talons down the length of McCree's face leaving smarting open wounds in their wake. Howls of fury and pain filled the night as they brawled, throwing themselves at one another with nothing more than a primal fury and need to destroy.

McCree snapped at Hanzo's legs, tearing wildly at his pelt. It felt as though he were piloting an out of control beast from behind the shield of his subconscious. He was no longer in full control of his faculties. He merely watched with a sick sense of satisfaction as the primordial behemoth he became acted out his will, throwing himself at Hanzo like the rabid wolf he was, trying to tear the white wolf apart with nothing more than his teeth. The feeling of his claws sinking through skin, drawing blood, eliciting sounds of wrathful furore was more gratifying than he could have ever guessed. He had pinned Hanzo to the ground with the overwhelming force of his weight and his unyielding attacks. The white wolf was turning red. Inch by inch he was being torn apart. McCree would shred him limb from limb. McCree would get his revenge on the white wolf by killing him with the beastly powers the white wolf had been _oh so kind_ to bless him with in the first place. What delicious poetic justice.

Hanzo struggled weakly beneath him. His spirit burned with a warrior's sense of determination, but there was nothing he could do to overcome McCree's long suffered ferocity. The wild wolf gave him no opportunity to retaliate, no opening to exploit to get away let alone gain the upper hand. His heart beat rapidly in his limbs as his body stung like he had been flayed all over. McCree bore down upon him, cavernous mouth wide, teeth dripping red with his blood. Hanzo felt the gaping maw of the abomination close around his throat, piercing his flesh and sinking deeper in to his veins, blood pouring from the open wounds, staining the tatami mat below.

As suddenly as it began, McCree reeled backwards, staggering as though struck by an invisible blow. He shuddered violently, a fitful seizure wracking his quadrupedal form. Hanzo scrambled away, trying in vain to ascertain the extent of his injuries, which proved impossible to catalogue as there was just too many of them. He limped out of range of McCree, who surprisingly let him go. When he glanced back, he saw a man where the wild wolf had been. McCree was panting, convulsing on the floor in a pool of blood.

The edges of Hanzo's vision blurred slightly, and he willingly de-transformed. Although his wounds would remain when transforming between a wolf and a man, wounds inflicted on his larger wolf body would be shrunk exponentially once he became human again. Considering how much damage McCree had managed to do in such a short period of time, it was only logical to conserve as much strength and blood as possible by becoming smaller, where the wounds closed slightly to scale down with him. He rose to his feet. His clothing was in tatters, torn to shreds and hanging loosely from his blood soaked skin. He pushed a few stray sweaty locks of hair from his face and took a shaky step forward. He fell, his knees weakened by the adrenaline of the fight. Hanzo clutched the wall for support and began to make his way to the foyer of the temple.

He heard the rumbling too late, and found himself hurled to the floor. McCree had dragged himself upright too, driving himself into Hanzo's back and they both fell to the floor in a heap. There was a brief struggle, until McCree managed to shove his gun in Hanzo's face and suddenly all was still. The only sound was the harmony of their joint laboured breathing as they stared one another down.

“Do it then,” Hanzo's face was as stalwart as the cliffs upon which his palace resided. Unshakeable. “Kill me.”

“Don't think I won't,” McCree's face twisted ghoulishly as he brandished the gun at Hanzo. Peacekeeper was his again. His revenge was sitting on a golden platter before his very eyes. Everything he had worked for. Everything he had suffered for. It ended tonight. But what would happen after he pulled this trigger? Finding the white wolf had been his entire life for nearly a decade. What would he do afterwards? Where would he go?

_Who would he be?_

“You hesitate,” Hanzo sneered up at him.

“No,” McCree shook his head. A deep breath – in and out – and his hand was steady once more. He knew what he had to do.

He pulled back the pin, his finger snaking around to rest on the trigger. There was a sharp, poignant click and a thunderous silence as the two men simply stared at one another. The wind whispered in the rafters, snaking in and out, carrying the scent of the burnt out incense to distance reaches of the palace.

 _You fool,_ Hanzo didn't even have to speak for his malicious hiss to ring through McCree's mind, _you fool!_

McCree stared at the empty gun, the barrel tarnished and weathered but cold with betrayal. A sick feeling churned his stomach. His whole body trembled, small shivers giving way to the tremors of a nerve-stricken man out of ideas. Hanzo sneered at him, cruel and mocking.

“You truly are pathetic.” He shoved McCree aside and stood, dusting himself off as he reached inside the breast fold of his traditional garb. McCree sprawled loosely on the ground, blinking in disbelief and he flinched when Hanzo withdrew his hand from his clothing, but he did not brandish a weapon at McCree. His fist was closed. With a satisfied smirk he opened his palm, dropping something in to McCree's lap. Instinctively, McCree snatched it out the air before it touched him, as though the foreign object may burn him on contact. McCree opened his hand shakily, and what he saw left his mouth agape.

It was a bullet.

“What're you playin' at?” he asked hotly, voice croaking with the strain as he squinted warily at Hanzo.

Hanzo simply adjusted his sleeves, placid and calm, though the tranquillity of his stance did not reach the cruel, hard lines of his face.

“You will not shoot me,” he said simply.

A hot lick of anger blazed through McCree from his spine to his throat and he fumbled with the bullet and Peacekeeper, flicking her open and loading it in to one of the empty chambers.

“O-oh yeah?” McCree spat through gritted teeth, “y'wanna bet? I'm a gamblin' man, Mister Hanzo, I'd take your wager before I take your life. What makes y' think I ain't got it in me? Huh? You're a bigger idiot than ya look, what since y'handed me yer own death sentence.”

“You won't kill me. You could have all the bullets in the world and you still couldn't do it. Not because you're a fool and a craven, though you certainly are, but because...” Hanzo glowered at him, his eyes black slits of pure malice, “it is your destiny to suffer a fate worse than death.”

“Ain't nothin' worse than a good, slow death by bleedin' out,” McCree lowered his brow, squeezing Peacekeeper tighter in his fingers, “you could ask some of my old friends about that, what since they died in a whole lotta pain after you had at 'em, of course.”

Hanzo hmmph'd, a sardonic smile twitching at the corners of his lips as his chest heaved. McCree swayed as he climbed to his feet.

“A boorish swine such as yourself _would_ think such a thing.”

“You're so full of it,” McCree snapped angrily.

“Is this it, then? The grand conclusion to your inveterate pursuit of vengeance?” Hanzo walked forward, in total control of the floor. A King in his Castle. No... a Shimada in his Palace, and that was a far more deadly foe. McCree tensed.

“Don't think I won't do it,” McCree growled threateningly as Hanzo came to a stop mere inches from him.

Hanzo batted aside Peacekeeper like he was swatting a fly out of the air. There was a riot in McCree's mind, with voices screaming over each other to kill him, _kill him, KILL HIM_ _NOW_ , until they overrodeone another, turning into one unintelligible cacophony of madness. He was powerless. Hanzo's eyes pierced him, cutting through his fortitude like a lance. He could no longer raise his gun. Hanzo might as well have been standing on his hand, as his limbs no longer obeyed him.

“If you wanted to do it, you would have,” Hanzo replied, his voice a harsh snarl of contempt as he radiated an aura of paralysing anger like fear itself was a weapon he alone commanded, “but here's the reality of your wretched existence, Jesse McCree. You are far too weak to avenge your old life with my murder. That is why I have no concern in handing you back your ammunition. I know that you can not bring yourself to kill me, I simply wanted you to realise the truth of that matter yourself.”

The air caught in McCree's throat. His whole chest clenched, as though someone had hit the pause button on all his vitals. For a moment, his heart did not beat. His lungs did not breathe. His lip trembled as he struggled to articulate anything more than a pathetic wisp of a defeated exhale. His gaze flicked back and forth shakily between each of Hanzo's cold, unfeeling eyes.

“Y-yeah you _would_ say that, y' _bastard_ -” McCree swallowed a hard lump in his throat which robbed him of the rest of his sentence. Suffering Hanzo's scrutiny like this made him realise just how outmatched he truly was.

“Do I look like a man who must flounder on the baseless conjecture of lies?” Hanzo sneered, clearly taking some delight in McCree's uncertainty. He was ice and steel, breaking down McCree's brittle walls through nothing more than the sheer brutality of his presence, overwhelming the other man with an indomitable spirit so fierce it was frightening.

“Y-you were there that night,” McCree took a step back. He knew it was true and yet somehow Hanzo's conviction had him doubting even his own two eyes. “I know it was you. Don't try and d-deny it. S-someone once told me a-a- long time ago that white werewolves are rare. _Real_ rare. Maybe even a myth. You can't stand there and tell me what I seen for myself ain't true!”

McCree clenched his free hand and became acutely aware of how much he was shaking. His mind had gone completely blank. Hanzo's mocking smirk became a fully fledged sneer of cruelty. A sociopath with the nuclear detonation codes epitomised for the cowering man before him. And he was about to use them.

“I _was_ there,” Hanzo hissed, “but if you think I was there to create some abhorrent _freak_ , you are more stupid than I could ever comprehend.”

“But-” McCree began, confusion starting to sour the inside of his mouth. He was promptly interrupted by Hanzo, who had not yet finished spewing his hateful tirade.

“ _Silence_!” Hanzo demanded fiercely, his voice rising in volume with the cumulative swell of his words, “you want answers? Is that it? You want me to tell you the _truth_ about that night?”

McCree was speechless.

“I'll tell you what really happened,” Hanzo sneered, crossing his arms, “after all, I promised you a fate worse than death, didn't I? Very well.” The tattered parts of Hanzo's outfit frayed further as he wiped at a deep cut on his forearm with a ripped sleeve, the wound still trailing blood from his fingertips. “Allow me to give you the “closure” you so desperately seek.”

“An... and why would I ever believe you?” McCree tried in vain to sound even half as confident as Hanzo did. Hanzo chuckled darkly.

“I was the only other person there. I'm feeling _charitable_ tonight, so permit me the pleasure of quashing your comforting misconceptions about that event once and for all.”

McCree fell quiet, the taste of copper on his tongue and the pulsating throb of dislocated joints growing more pressing as each passing minute dragged on.

“What do you remember of that night, I wonder? I will make the assumption that you can recall very little.”

“What makes you say that?” McCree wavered as he felt a trickle of blood drip down the back of his neck.

“It's quite simple, really,” Hanzo sneered, “ _you died_.”

McCree froze.

“What did you say?”

Hanzo's teeth flashed white in the moonlight, sullied only by the taint of blood smeared across his lips.

“You. _Died_.”

McCree screwed up his face in bewilderment.

“That's crazy-”

“Is it?” Hanzo raised an eyebrow, “is it truly that difficult for you to comprehend?”

“I-... I'm pretty sure I'd remember something like that!” McCree shouted, “I was in the med bay after a mission for a check up, when _you_ burst in an-and murdered my friends!”

“Is that what you think happened?” Hanzo's cruel expression turned to a taunting laugh of genuine, cruelty-laced amusement, “truly? _That_ is your understanding of the events that transpired that night... after all this time?”

“That's all I remember,” McCree scowled angrily.

“That is all you _choose_ to remember!” Hanzo's voice carried through the entire temple.

“If I died then how come I'm standin' right here?” McCree smacked his open palm to his own chest, and immediately regretted it as the bruising circling his ribs took that as an excuse to deepen.

“Because...” Hanzo was back to his even toned malice, “... _someone_ turned you into a werewolf.”

“Yeah!” McCree shouted incredulously, flinging his hands out in anger, “ _you did!_ That's what I've been tryin' t' say-”

“ _Imbecile_!” Hanzo raised his voice to match McCree's, “ _I_ was the one that killed you!”

McCree blinked. Once again he found himself shocked into silent submission. He felt like he had been frozen solid, as little by little his memory allowed that night to be drawn to the surface of his consciousness. Never before had he let himself dwell on it. He found very quickly that letting those memories resurface resulted in nothing less than agonising pain - his mind simply could not take the trauma he had suffered and shut down completely.

Suddenly, McCree found himself in a cold room. He knew this room was miles away from Japan. Miles, and... _years_. Red, _red,_ _ **red**_. Blood everywhere. He knew where he was. He would never forget it. He _could_ never forget it. Dimly, he became aware that his hands were full. He looked down and bile stripped the lining of his throat like a caustic flood. Parts of him that belonged on the inside were... very slowly spilling into the _outside_. He heard a sound and his eyes tore away from the horror of his fingers sinking in to the warm crimson of his own innards. His gaze immediately fell right into a pair of baby blue eyes, wide and horrified, glassy with the grace of his last breath. _C_ _-C_ _ommander?_ The lampabove him swung from side to side, and McCree was blinded as his consciousness slipped beneath the waves of a storm he could never hope to weather.

He... he really had died.

It was true.

Hanzo was telling the truth.

“Commander?” Hanzo echoed scathingly, and McCree realised he had been blubbering aloud. He found himself back in the present with the sudden severity of a lightning strike. Anguish painted his face a gaunt jaundice, as words failed him and his fragile mind offered no comforting resolution to the alarming nightmare he had just recalled.

“Ahh, yes...” Hanzo wiped at his bleeding arm once again, “Strike Commander Jack Morrison. He was there that night too, if I recall? You also tried to use his name as an alias a few weeks ago. How... _touching_ that his name lives on in the lies of a fool.”

McCree felt a sting at the corner of his eyes as he stared at Hanzo in horror. Once there as a time in his life that the worst thing he had to fear was the monster under his bed. Those naïve childhood fears soon gave way to a broken man, terrorised by the monster that lived inside of him. In that moment, McCree realised there were worse things out there than a beast lying dormant under his skin, ready to strip him of his autonomy and turn him into a mindless husk of madness. There were greater horrors than the parasitic monstrosity within him. He had been scared of what was on the inside when he should have been fearing greater evils all along. Evils like the one standing before him, that lived and breathed in the flesh.

“I remember...” McCree breathed weakly. He was lost. Defeated. He sunk to his knees and clutched his face, fingers digging into his hair so tight he threatened to tear it from his scalp, “i-if you... if you k-killed me... then... then... n-no... I-... I remember.... I... I remember...”

The heels of his palms pushed in to the hollows of his eyes, squeezing them shut in distress. His hands were wet enough that heavy droplets fell against his lap, but it was impossible to tell if they were from crying or blood from his wounds. McCree choked on a river of salt-laden tears and mucus running down the back of his throat. His heart stung as though being ripped and torn to shreds like a flimsy piece of paper under the assault of a hundred razor sharp blades. He was paralysed. He was a failure. Anguish shred every inch of his body, until all he could feel was the numbness of his collapse, and the painful wreckage of his will abandoning him.

He had nothing left to lose.

“I-if you killed me then... p-please...” McCree whispered shakily, muffled by his hands.

Hanzo sniffed, a smirk plastered to his cracked, bleeding lips.

“What are you begging for now, _dog_? Want me to kill you again? Put you out of your misery?”

“ _Please,”_ McCree implored as he collapsed, “p-please... who... who m-made... me... a... a... a m-.... monster... _tell me_...”

Hanzo exhaled sharply. It was a sound of derisive pleasure. He knew whole heartedly that he had won. That he had broken McCree's spirit beyond repair.

“I will tell you simply because I enjoy the sight of you snivelling at my feet. After all the trouble you have caused me this is most enjoyable,” Hanzo crouched so he was eye level with the dishevelled mass that was his adversary, “I intend to savour this. The moment I crush you like the _roach_ you are. It delights me to no end that you finally realise your quest for revenge against me has been nothing but a mindless farce. That you have wasted so many years of your life chasing a truth that does not exist.”

“ _Please_...” McCree wept hoarsely.

“Very well,” Hanzo smirked triumphantly.

It all finally became too much for McCree to bear. The loss of blood, the stress, the resurfacing of suppressed trauma – with it, he welcomed the hazy, black light that butted his vision and sung his very existence to sleep. This time, he hoped, it would be forever. Even still... he heard the next impossible words that Hanzo Shimada spoke.

“The one who turned you was none other than... _Gabriel Reyes.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	5. Ashes

“...what?”

McCree wheezed as though there was an iron claw crushing his chest cavity in its fist, disbelief butting his eyes. Gabriel..? The sudden sound of frantic, running footsteps pierced through the following silence, attracted by the commotion in the temple.

“Hanzo!” Genji's voice rang out as he skidded to a halt, taking in the scene that lay before him.

Hanzo's eyes snapped up from where they were boring through the front of McCree's skull and softened as though in a gesture of reassurance. McCree trembled as he dragged his line of sight around over his shoulder. He met Genji's eyes. They were wide with panic but hardened the moment he saw the look on McCree's face and pieced together the events that had transpired. _Guilt._ McCree really did know all too well how tough a pill to swallow it was. Genji rushed to his brother's side, threading an arm behind his back for support and bloodying his hands as he grasped at the tattered rags hanging from Hanzo's shoulders. He frantically tried to assess his brother's injuries and was promptly swatted away. Hanzo said something to him in a low voice but McCree did not see anything further as he was suddenly hauled back by several pairs of strong, unrelenting hands.

Somebody barked an order at the guards holding him. As McCree was dragged backwards, his vision was foggy with the strain but he saw the statuesque figure of an older Japanese man enter the temple. His traditional robes fell effortlessly across his powerful frame and the streaks of grey in his thin beard made him all the more distinguished.

“ _Otou-san!_ ” he heard Genji cry, distressed, as he was heaved from the room.

It was dark; people had suddenly swarmed the gardens and McCree could not make head nor tails of the chaos brimming around him. The chaos he undoubtedly caused. His lungs burned like they had been pierced with a thousand knives, and hot, angry tears rolled down his rough cheeks but he didn't remember when he had begun to cry. He didn't know why he had begun to cry. Every bone in his body felt like it had been broken, every muscle torn, every ligament snapped, every vein burst. He was on fire, and he was being suffocated in an avalanche all at the same time. With every passing second McCree's fortitude was drained from him. Not just his physical strength, but rather his will to live and fight and breathe. His very essence itself. It spilled out of him like rain down a storm drain, impossibly fast, immeasurably painful. If McCree could have felt anything in that moment, it would have been terror at how quickly and easily his body embraced the overwhelming despair of defeat, as though he had been destined for it all along and was simply accepting the narrative the stars deemed fit for a man such as himself.

His feet dragged lifelessly beneath him over polished floors and down a flight of steps, as incomprehensible shouting spiked all around him. McCree was leached dry of emotion, and hardly reacted when he was thrown through a doorway to land hard on his back. He lay still, savouring the almost sweet sensation of his back protesting with agony, as it felt like the only thing capable of piercing through the numb haze that threatened to drown him entirely. It felt more real than anything McCree had ever experienced. It was grey, muted, and endless. Like reaching rock bottom only to find that there was no bottom, just an empty void.

He waited for morning, but morning never seemed to come. After what must have been hours, McCree finally felt the strength to lift his head and survey his surroundings. This was not the cell he had been held in previously. It was colder, darker, and much, much smaller. The walls were solid concrete and the only way in or out was through a set of heavy steel bars that had been slammed shut behind him. It was impossible to track the passage of time here, not that it would do him any good. He truly was left for dead, as the first person he saw after being condemned to that cold room was a burly guard, his suit crisp and uniformly black, two whole days after the night he tried and failed to kill Hanzo. By that point, his throat was parched dry and he could feel his life itself wane before him, stretching thin like desert sand brushed across a lonely highway. Insignificant. The drought had cracked his lips and they bled thick, syrupy blood that tasted like a mouthful of dirty coins pressed against the inside of his cheek. His injuries from the fight with Hanzo were extensive, but it was impossible for him to assess by himself. All he could do was lie on the barren floor, freezing his ass off in his blood soaked rags and hope that broken parts would mend themselves in time.

The guard dropped a plastic bottle of water at his feet, and McCree wished he felt shame as he scrambled towards it, shakily tearing away the cap and gulping the contents down like the dying man he was. Much of it spilled out the corners of his quivering lips, making him gasp at the cold shock of water running down the wiry stubble of his neck.

“Hanzo Shimada sends a message,” the guard said in a deep rumble and McCree was so shocked that one of the security personnel was talking to him for once that he simply blinked and listened.

“You will talk now.”

\--

McCree was trapped in a nightmare. Usually his night terrors consisted of grotesque demons and knives in his heart, but this ordeal was nothing like that at all. It was not violent. It was not painful. It was numbing. The strength sapped from his bones leaving them like dead weights and his head was foggy like a car windshield on an frigid January morning. Moving felt like he was pulling his body through a heady black sludge, and concentrating on anything for more than a few seconds was an impossibility. He could only sit and watch himself be consumed by his own grief. The fire inside of him had been extinguished forever, and it seemed that nothing would make his heart beat true again.

He was broken.

He sat in a white room at an empty table. He had no desire to even look out of the window beside him.

“So,” he heard Hanzo's voice ask from a million miles away. With great effort he turned his head to look at the other man. “My patience for your non-cooperation has reached its limit. You will answer my questions with the truth now – understood?”

“I hear ya,” McCree replied, his voice soft and devoid of any emotion or inflection. It was too much effort... far too much effort. It was too much effort to lie. It was too much effort to pretend he was something he wasn't. It was taking all of his strength and fortitude right now to simply prevent the fragmented pieces of his psyche from falling apart like an irreparably shattered vase. Every word took a tremendous amount of stamina to force out.

“Who are you really?” Hanzo clicked his teeth derisively.

 _A failure_.

“I told ya...” McCree felt like he was talking through a mouth full of gauze with how powdery dry his tongue and throat were, “the name's McCree.”

“I know that much,” Hanzo replied, his eyes dark beads of seething hatred, “ _Jesse McCree_. I want to know more than just your name. Take into consideration the only reason you have not been killed yet is because I think you and the information you possess might prove to be useful to me. After your recent outburst, my mercy is unlikely to carry you much further, however, should I find your answers to my questions satisfactory I may ask that my father ensure your death is a quick and painless one compared to the... _alternative_.”

McCree did not respond to the threat.

“Whaddaya wanna know?” he said to the ground.

“Who do you work for?”

“Nobody,” McCree's shoulders twitched in the vaguest gesture of a shrug, “m'self I guess.”

“You were an agent of Overwatch though, correct?”

“I guess... well, nah... not really. _Blackwatch_. That's where... that's what I was.”

“I see.”

“It was...” McCree scrunched up his face, as the harder he tried to concentrate on forming sentences, the more they seemed to fail him, “like... a different part of Overwatch. Covert ops.”

“Have you worked for anyone since the fall of Overwatch?”

He may have been dead inside, but those words – _the fall of Overwatch -_ it filled him with a certain kind of melancholy, like a sad bell being tolled in some closed off part of his soul.

“E'rybody thought I was dead,” McCree's voice was low and hoarse, devoid of feelings yet still strained, “ain't nobody hirin' a dead man. Not like none of my references coulda vouched for me anyhow...” he lifted his eyes, meeting Hanzo's level gaze. _Thanks to you_.

“So you're a solo agent then? A wanderer? You don't report to anybody?” Hanzo was unapologetically methodical in his questioning.

“'S right.”

“Tell me more about Blackwatch then.”

“What's there to tell?” McCree shook his head, “Blackwatch died in th' same grave as Overwatch did. When... once... Ja- Morrison... once Morrison was gone so was everythin' else.”

“What is it exactly _you_ did with Blackwatch?”

McCree smiled. It was a distant, far-away kind of smile full of despair and yearning.

“Killed a whole lotta people...” he responded, though a nostalgic smile graced the edges of his lips.

“Who?”

“People tha' Overwatch couldn't... people in the way.”

“Yet Overwatch was a peace keeping organisation, was it not?”

“No better way to keep the peace than t' quietly remove anyone who threatens it. Bet you'd know all about that.”

Hanzo drummed his fingers on the table, deep in thought.

“Gabriel Reyes was your superior in Blackwatch then?”

McCree was silent. What was a man like Reyes to a lost soul like him? How could he ever hope to articulate a response that told the whole story when his temples throbbed and the breath caught in his throat at the mere thought of that man's face?

“Yeah... he was my... my... boss...”

He was looking right through Hanzo like he was invisible, his eyes glazed as he sat hunched over in his chair. Like the ocean claws loose the severity of a harsh cliff face, McCree's morale itself was being pulled into the undercurrent of stagnant, bitter memories he was being forced to remember. He had tried to hard to forget. He was ashamed of himself to find how much had not been forgotten at all.

Why was Hanzo Shimada so interested in Gabriel Reyes of all people anyway? Did Reyes owe him money? Had they conducted business in the past? The way Hanzo looked when asking about Reyes was difficult to read – it was like he held all the contempt in the world for him, yet lacked the spark of recognition of somebody who had actually met him. It was like Hanzo knew everything about him and nothing at the same time. McCree had to hand it to him – Gabriel Reyes was just that kind of man.

McCree didn't think he'd ever forget the day he first met Reyes. It was the kind of thing that stuck with him until he was certain he could be a babbling fool on death's door as old age came to claim him and he'd still be able to recall everything. The Jesse McCree life story wasn't complete without him in it. When McCree was just a boy, he had found himself in less than perfect circumstances, keeping less than desirable company doing not quite so legal things just to survive. It wasn't ideal, but it was the cards he had been dealt and he had played them the best he could. The Deadlock Gang were a rough bunch of crooks and thugs operating out of a fortified warehouse in the dusty heart of Deadlock Gorge which was the kind of place that was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sort of ghost town. Any fools stupid enough to reside there had long since been run out, so the only faces you'd see there were the scarred mugs of criminals at work. They had a good thing going out of the Gorge. Until Overwatch swooped in with Blackwatch in the shadows and shut the whole thing down overnight - those unfortunate enough to be captured were given an ultimatum. Join us or die. Most of the numbskulls he used to run with chose their pride and so they were wasting away in an untagged jail cell where nobody would ever find them again. Jesse... well Jesse was no traitor, but he wasn't a fool either. He chose life. He chose _freedom_. He chose to join Blackwatch and follow the desert winds wherever they took him, and in doing so he found a _home_. No white picket fence in sight, but it was a home none the less, more so than any he had ever found back in the Gorge.

"Tell me about him," Hanzo said curtly, cutting through the distracted train of thought carrying McCree through memory lane against his will.

"He's... he was..." McCree frowned, "a tough man. Nobody ever got close to him. Nobody ever  _tried_ . He did his job... he was ruthless and calculatin'... if it served him tactically then he'd leave ya for dead on a mission if y' messed up. Nobody crossed him. Nobody had to.”

Hanzo sighed wearily, his chest compressing slowly with a long, steady exhale and his eyes swept McCree from head to toe.

“Do you have knowledge of any experiments that Gabriel Reyes was involved in?”

McCree was hunched forward, and he glanced down at his hands hanging limply from his lap.

“No,” he replied softly, immediately flinching in anticipation of the backhand that typically accompanied answers that Hanzo didn't like. When Hanzo was frustrated and tired of not making the kind of progress he wanted. No such strike came.

“Did he have any associates who may have had ties in a scientific, or maybe even medical field of research?”

McCree's chest pulsed briefly with a harsh exhale that would have been a disservice to call a snort of laughter. Reyes – a man of academics? Not the Reyes he knew. Shotguns would always come before science.

“... no...”

“Have you any knowledge of secret projects that Reyes lead during your time with Blackwatch?”

“... no...”

“Did Reyes have many friends at your base of operations?”

“... no...”

“Was he a werewolf?”

“... no...” McCree replied, then quietly added, “... he was a monster, but he wasn't _that_ kind of monster.”

“What do you mean,” Hanzo's tone was sharp and impatient, “ _a monster_?”

It was a struggle for McCree to express exactly what was on the forefront of his mind – an impossibly wide grin, all teeth, red eyes in the night, clawed hands from the shadows...

“... takes a particular kind to do what we did... duty calls 'n' all... but Reyes... he always looked like he was enjoyin' it...”

Hanzo regarded him coolly.

"No odd disappearances?"

"Every disappearance was odd in Blackwatch."

Hanzo tapped his foot impatiently against the floor. He was growing impatient, which meant McCree's time was running out to come up with something that would satisfy him.

“What were you doing in Oregon?”

It was an abrupt change of subject. McCree dragged his hang-dog eyes up to Hanzo's face which was taut with both impatience and a dark satisfaction that came with McCree finally spilling his guts. In a metaphorical fashion, for once.

“Tryin' t' find... the white wolf.”

Hanzo frowned, picking apart his words like he was looking for contradictions. McCree felt himself deflate. He had suffered so much at the hands of Hanzo Shimada to protect that information – who he was, what he had been doing there – he thought if he could just hold out, he'd escape. He had been given the opportunity to do so and he squandered it, just like he had everything good in his life.

“You mean me?” Hanzo stared at him.

“I didn't know it was you at th' time,” McCree sighed wearily, nostrils flaring.

“You also thought I was the one who had turned you.”

McCree swallowed the hard lump in his throat.

“Y-yeah.”

“A fool,” Hanzo smirked, pleased. He seemed to enjoy tormenting McCree the way a house cat enjoys toying with a mouse before killing it. McCree was too tired, much too tired to fight back. Not that fighting got him anywhere. He had been bested at every turn by Hanzo Shimada. Accepting that fact had crushed his spirit the way Hanzo had nearly crushed his lungs. With that being said, Hanzo did not seem to be overly pained by their fight to the near-death only a few days ago. McCree caught the flickers of a few winces and the odd stiff jointed movement, and the fringe of a sticky plaster bandage peeked above his collar, but other than that he was as unshakeable as ever. Not like McCree. McCree was still dressed in rags, his only clothes torn to pieces that night. He had barely been given enough water to keep his heart beating, and none of it had been wasted on hygiene and a thick second-skin of grime and blood stuck to him like grease. There was a good reason Hanzo wouldn't get closer than the other side of the table.

“You... y' said it was... Reyes...” McCree desperately needed to know more, but the question died on his tongue before he could give it life. He didn't have the energy to waste his breath anymore.

“I did,” Hanzo replied simply, “this distresses you.”

It wasn't a question.

“How... how do you know...?”

Hanzo chuckled, and a shiver ran down the back of McCree's spine.

“I have it on very good authority.”

McCree grit his teeth. Just sitting upright was painful, but trying to have this conversation was more than he could handle.

“You're not going to tell me, are ya?”

“No,” Hanzo smiled. If he couldn't get information for McCree, it seemed as though he had an even better purpose for him - to torture him for entertainment.

“But it's true... isn't it...” McCree wasn't sure he was speaking to Hanzo as much as he was himself.

“Yes.”

McCree chewed on his own tongue, mulling over the words, begging his brain to formulate some kind of intelligent response or question or  _something_ that might get him even a fraction closer to the truth because as much as he didn't want to admit it, it was eating him from the inside. That Hanzo,  _Hanzo Shimada,_ the beast sitting before him, knew something about his past, about  _him_ that he himself didn't even know was maddening. 

"I think that's enough for today," Hanzo said with a cruel twist of his lips, "guards! Have the prisoner escorted back to his  _room_ ." The way Hanzo stressed the last word was designed to be as insulting as possible.

The same guards that had escorted him here appeared in the doorway. McCree wanted to make a light-hearted joke about them being able to relax –  _come on now, I don't bite_ \- but he didn't even have the energy to do that. 

"He's sluggish," Hanzo looked past McCree to the security detail, "I cannot get anything useful from him in this state. Ensure he is given food, water and sanitation this evening so that I may find him more useful tomorrow."

McCree's stomach rumbled at the mention of food. The bowl of plain rice and limp, undercooked fish he received that evening might have been the most delicious meal he had ever eaten. He picked at every grain, savouring the warmth; somehow white rice was the tastiest, most flavoursome thing he had ever put in his mouth. He ate until he was full, with a thin layer of rice at the bottom of the dish which he intended to save for the morning. He washed in a basin of frigid, ice cold water mixed with something that smelled and frothed like dish soap, but he felt as though the water had washed clean his very soul. He had even been provided with some loose fitted clothing - a thin pair of sweat pants and matching shirt that looked like a prison uniform, only serving to heighten the aesthetic of his predicament. When McCree fell asleep that evening, he did so hugging the bowl of leftover rice tightly to his chest.

\--

When McCree awoke the next morning , he felt like an entirely new man. He had made peace with something burning below the surface and for the first time in a long time he was... okay. Not great. Not by a long shot. This was probably the worst place he had ever had the misfortune of finding himself trapped in. Yet his mind was quiet. The  _beast_ was quiet. His body didn't hurt quite so much. His mental anguish didn't sting quite so bad. He could mentally demote his condition from  _agonising_ to just  _bad._

When he was lead back to the interrogation room, he actually had the sense of mind to look around him as he went. He was still recovering, but his eyes actually focused on things now without making him want to turn his stomach inside out.

They passed Genji on the way. McCree tried to catch his eye - to do what, he wasn't sure. Apologise? He doubted the guards would let him stop to chat, hell, they would probably beat him into submission for so much as speaking a word to the Shimada family out of turn, but McCree felt desperately that he owed Genji  _something_ . Much to his luck, Genji glanced up as they passed. There was a fleeting moment of passive observation, then his features hardened sternly. Just like his brother. He glared at McCree for a second, hatred and betrayal oozing from his every pore before he very deliberately looked away. Whether he had rejected McCree's tilted brows of apology or whether he had even  _noticed_ them remained a mystery. Genji had a black eye, McCree noticed. 

\--

McCree was finding the confines of his cell more liberating than the open bars of his previous accommodation. Without the temptation of nature and freedom so close and yet so far from his fingertips, it gave him time to think. Uninterrupted time for reflection. Usually he would avoid that kind of thing at all costs but this was an interesting chapter in his life, and there really wasn't much else to do. He reflected on what Hanzo had said about Gabriel Reyes during their fight. That Reyes was the one to turn him. This lead to McCree straining, glaring at the concrete ceiling with his head on his arms, resting leisurely on his back as he struggled to recall more of his past. Somehow it was all a blur. To be fair, some of it was bordering on 20 years ago now. He didn't like to think about how old he was getting, but at least it excused him from why he couldn't remember a whole lot about his early days of Blackwatch.

Was that when Reyes did it? Turned him? Could it have been possible for him to have not known about the beast within him all those years? He didn't know the first thing about how werewolves worked, or how they were made, but that  _did_ seem a little ludicrous. In all the story books, they transformed during the full moon, but McCree could count more than a dozen times he had been outside during the full moon on a mission and he hadn't felt so much as a hiccup let alone a grotesque transformation into a beast. This then begged the next question...  _how_ . How did he do it. How did he do it in such a way that McCree didn't know? 

These questions churned over and over in his mind until they were as stiff as butter, melting away and reforming as quickly as they came. Always questions. Never any answers. The more he tried to force himself to remember specific details, the less he could trust them. The mind was good at that - playing tricks on you. He could easily conjure up a scary, lucid dream of Reyes biting him, spearing inch long teeth through his neck, spilling blood across white snow under the midnight moon as though it had happened only yesterday. Then he reminded himself that was how vampires were formed, not werewolves. At least he didn't think they were. At the very least he would have remembered if Reyes bit him like a rabid dog... wouldn't he?

The endless spiral was driving him insane. If he had a pen, he was sure he would have covered the walls with the ramblings of a committed madman. It was time to put the voices, the endless questions to rest.

\--

He had decided to ask Hanzo. It was foolish, he knew that. But perhaps, he theorised, if Hanzo could give him just a glimmer of information about werewolves then maybe it would trigger some useful memory. That's what Hanzo needed him for, right? Information. Specifically, information about his own werewolf transformation but neither of them were going to get very far if McCree didn't know the first thing about werewolves.

It was funny. He had been chasing the white wolf for so long, he thought he had all this figured out. Only in finding the white wolf did he realise how little he actually knew. He had never really thought about it. All he needed to put together was that he wasn't a werewolf before the white wolf attacked, but he was a werewolf  _afterwards_ . That didn't leave many blanks in McCree's mind. 

Hanzo simply stared at him impassively when he asked.

"How are werewolves actually, you know,  _made_ ?"

No answer.

"See, I was figurin'... I don't actually know that. You wanna know how Reyes turned me into a wolf, right? Well I dunno how it usually goes down, so maybe it might be a little useful if y' could fill in a couple o' blanks for me, huh? How did  _you_ become a werewolf?"

Hanzo considered this in silence for a second, the heavy hairs of his brows bristling in contemplation.

"Very well," he said finally, and McCree was stunned. He had tried it out, but he was in no way at all confident that Hanzo would indulge him with this information. "Werewolves are born werewolves," he said simply. "My father is a werewolf. My mother is a werewolf. As are their ancestors before them. As will my descendens after me."

"So it's... genetic? It's as simple as that?"

"It is."

"So... I wasn't born a wolf..." McCree was rolling the words across his tongue, giving him time to think, "so then how  _was_ I made?"

Hanzo smirked.

"Perhaps I should deign to tell you one day when I have a need for you to know."

McCree's expression fell, exasperated and dark.

"Of course."

This was part of his punishment - keeping him in the dark. Keeping him from the truth he had so desperately sought for a decade. Letting him lay awake all day and night with the knowledge that he was so close, the same way he was so close to freedom in his previous cell. It was a dangling carrot, one he could never hope to catch. McCree had seen plenty of physical torture in his Blackwater days but he had to hand it to Hanzo Shimada, psychological torture of this calibre was nearly artistic in its execution.

--

The walk to and from the interrogation room was becoming a familiar habit. Every day the questions were slightly different, and every time McCree answered as best he could. He was headstrong, but he wasn't as dumb as he looked. His quick thinking was probably the only reason he had stayed alive as long as he had in this lifetime and that was something he took pride in. 

It was on one of a hundred similar journeys that he noticed an interesting tapestry for the first time. His entourage of guards had paused to relay some quick spoken information to a gaggle of similarly dressed goons. In that moment of reprieve, McCree took the opportunity to look around. Through a wide archway he glimpsed a swath of colour. Bending his neck at an awkward angle allowed him a better view of the enormous work of art that sat above a different entrance. It looked impressive, and McCree only wished he could take longer to observe it. Woven from glittering cord, it painted a tapestry of two enormous dragons, curling and entwining around one another, their ferocious jaws open in what appeared to be a fierce battle. They were regal and powerful, and from a distance McCree could tell how detailed and we'll maintained they were. Wolves sat at the crest of the mountains rising out of the background of the mural, smaller and noticeably less majestic. Their eyes downcast, their heads bowed. McCree could just barely see a human looking figure with green skin adorned with what looked to be skulls danced below the dragons on a pedestal. McCree dreamed of that scene as he drifted in and out of sleep later that day, and he nearly convinced himself that it was alive, with the dragons surging forth and the alien figure prancing, the skulls on its belt clacking their jaws in laughter as a wolf howled.

\--

The next several interrogations sucked. No two ways about it. Hanzo was forcing him to recall and describe almost everybody he ever worked with. They spent two days alone detailing everything he could remember about Jack Morrison alone - what he ate for breakfast, what his habits were, where he went after work. Some of it McCree knew, some of it he didn't. It seemed unnecessarily pedantic and useless to know all this about a dead man - it wasn't like he was going to jump out at them from behind a pot plant. Let sleeping dogs lie, especially dogs as old and sacred to him as the Strike Commander. Since he couldn't get a whole lot of information from McCree about Reyes, it seemed like Hanzo was determined to get the full low down on literally every body else that McCree had so much as met in passing. Hearing some of those names from Hanzo's lips when it had been so long since he'd even heard them at all... it was confronting to say the least. Gabriel Reyes, Jack Morrison, Angela Ziegler, Wilhelm Reinhardt... the biggest and best of Overwatch and Blackwater alike, and McCree was spilling everything he could recall about each and every one of them while Hanzo scribbled absently but intensely in a notebook. At least when he was writing, he was too busy to take out his nasty personality on McCree.

"What do you even wanna know about these people for?" McCree felt brave enough to ask one day, "I thought you wanted to know about Reyes?"

Hanzo did not bother to answer.

\--

In its prime, Overwatch was a force to be reckoned with. A peacekeeping organisation born from the ashes of the downfall of the United Nations, the highly mobile, tactical military drew recruits from all over the world. Settling civil wars, aiding in natural disasters, keeping the delicate balance in war torn countries the world over – no job was too big for Overwatch. Lead by the fearless and peerless Jack Morrison, Overwatch could do no wrong.

There were only a few people still alive who knew why that was.

The  _real_ work, the dirty jobs, the ugly jobs, the ones you went in to knowing you weren't going to come out to have a medal pinned on your chest... that's what Blackwatch was for. They operated in the shadows. They were the ones running covert missions that never saw the light of day. They never got any fame or glory; no television specials, no trophies, no commendations from the public for how difficult their job was. The daily life of a Blackwatch operative made being knee deep in the trenches for Overwatch look like a vacation by comparison. They killed warlords. They sent their men deep undercover in child pornography rings. They lost their own to cartels. They all carried scars from animal poachers gone rogue, stints in third world prison cells, and drug busts gone wrong. It was messy. McCree had been young and naïve when Reyes recruited him all those decades ago; if he had known what the job really entailed, he wasn't entirely certain he would have taken it. Prison was better than becoming a prisoner of your own nightmares, years after the work was done. 

\--

McCree had always tried to live his life with no regrets, which is why, when he stumbled into one, he found that he fixated on it for far longer than the average person might. He had regretted not being able to save Jack Morrison. Morrison had been charismatic, charming, and powerful – not just in a physical sense, but  _truly_ powerful. He could speak, and people would listen. He could direct, and people would trust his word. He was everything McCree looked up to, and everything McCree could never hope to be. 

He had a surprising amount of contact with the head of Overwatch for a Blackwatch grunt. As Reyes' protege, he shadowed him  _everywhere_ . Every mission, every meeting – hell, he even trailed after Reyes to the mess hall and back. Reyes met with Morrison a lot.  _A lot._ McCree often waited in the hall, spinning a coin between his fingers or counting the leaves of the droopy shrub in the corner. When they were done, Morrison would usually exchange pleasantries with McCree. Sometimes he would sit with them during dinner – he tried to make an effort to sit with every clique and division periodically. He was just that kind of person. Too kind. Too understanding. Too invested in people. Too happy to look past the glittering test scores of the prodigies, and too willing to look past the criminal records of the lowlifes. McCree wasn't sure if he would call Morrison a “friend” per se, but there was no denying that the Strike Commander's importance was placed on an impossibly high pedestal in the back of his mind. 

\--

McCree regretted double crossing Genji. The younger Shimada brother had truly tried to help him, and McCree was a fool who didn't see the forest through the trees. After many hours of reflection, McCree realised it wasn't even himself that he was upset for. It was Genji himself. The few times he had caught a glimpse of Genji as he was dragged to or from his time with Hanzo, there was something definitely wrong. Genji seemed withdrawn. Quiet. Not just in the way he wouldn't talk to McCree or even make eye contact with him, but it was like his entire aura had been shrunk to a pale caricature of its former zeal. McCree hoped the black eyes and the split lips were just from training accidents.

Genji had tried to help him, knowing that he would likely be punished. Genji had gone out of his way for a stranger. A lowlife. McCree allowed himself a laugh, a dark, haunted sort of chuckle while lying awake in his cell as he realised that  _he_ would have approved. A classic Morrison move. Sacrifice yourself for the greater good. Put your own neck in the guillotine if it saves even one innocent life. McCree had been too blind to see it, and Genji did not even have the satisfaction of having done a good deed, because McCree had ruined everything and got himself caught again. Not before trying to murder Genji's brother, of course. Hanzo may be strict and terrifying, and it seemed like he had no trouble with threatening Genji, but Genji still clearly looked up to him. They were family. 

McCree wondered whose hands Genji's blood had sullied, but Hanzo's knuckles were never any more bruised than usual.

\--

“What do you think, Jesse?”

Morrison's voice fluttered through his conscience as he slept, a ghostly recording in his memories. He hesitated to call this his “happy place”, but it was a memory he revisited often through the years. He was 25, and had sat down in a chair outside Morrison's office, propping up his feet on the coffee table and getting comfortable in the familiar surroundings.

“What do you think you're doing?” Reyes' gravelly voice asked, “you're coming in.”

“I'm what?”

“Inside. Come on.”

Reyes had pushed open the door and McCree knew better than to question him, following him inside like the silent shadow he was. Or perhaps a lapdog was more accurate.

Jack and Reyes discussed the details of a new mission. It was nothing McCree had heard of before, and nothing he had any knowledge of prior to walking in to this room – so why was he here? He sat in silence, listening to every detail. London was under threat from a militant extremist group with some pretty insane ideas and prejudices. The British Prime Minister had released a statement to say that they were unafraid of these terrorists, and would retaliate in kind to any large scale attack but Morrison had concerns.  _Why wait_ , he had said,  _why wait until they've already done something - until it's too late to save lives_ ? But something was eating Morrison.  _The Government have not authorised Overwatch to make any moves_ . There it was.  _They won't even authorise Overwatch to be operational on British soil._ Morrison was desperate. There was a certain hunger in his eyes McCree had never been privileged enough to see before. He could not sit idly by while people suffered, he explained, that's why Overwatch existed, to help the poor and disenfranchised in times of need even if the out of touch Government officials disagreed. 

“What do you think, Jesse?”

It was probably meant as a throwaway question – not really asking for his opinion.

“I don't know,” he had replied.

They were asking the impossible of him. Morrison himself wanted McCree to fly undercover into London, meet with some Blackwatch connections and infiltrate the terrorist base. Morrison was asking him to gather intel, to bring back any data they could use that might either convince the Prime Minister to accept Overwatch's help, or come in handy when they invariably broke the rules and helped anyway. It was off record, off the books, off the page. True Blackwatch style. Morrison was trusting McCree and McCree alone on this mission. Not even Reyes was going. McCree had never gone on a mission without Reyes before. Without a  _squad_ . Morrison was asking for his input now. Morrison was treating him like part of the team, the  _bigger picture_ , like he was part of Overwatch itself. 

Duty called, and McCree answered.

“ _What do you think, Jesse?”_

\--

An earth shattering roar ripped McCree out of a feverish sleep. At first he thought he had imagined it. That it was the beast inside of his body and inside of his head stirring trouble just when he thought it might not ever resurface. Then he heard it again, closer this time, and the room seemed to shake with it. It was dark in his cell, like always. He had no view of the outside world whatsoever – what time was it right now? How long had he been asleep?

Another explosion, and this time, McCree could smell smoke.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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